


swipe right (if you like me)

by skyestiel



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Drinking Games, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Multiple, Save them, Serenading, Sharing Clothes, Slow Burn, [lance voice] steamy makeout sesh, attempted humor, kind of??, met on Tinder, they start dating and don't even realize, totally self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 15:08:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 43,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9613208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyestiel/pseuds/skyestiel
Summary: "I’m doin’ it.Lance giggles under his breath and drags the cat meme picture to the right side of his screen.But this, friends, is why one shouldn’t tempt fate over Tinder."or: Lance finds the most unlikely match on Tinder and—accidentally,maybe—gains a boyfriend in the process





	1. step 1: don't tempt fate

**Author's Note:**

> DUN, DUN, DUNNNNNNN. i said i needed to take a break from multichap fics and, well, here we are. this idea really got away from me. these boys are just _way_ too much fun to write, and my own interesting tinder experiences spawned this lovely little... story, if you want to call it that
> 
> i'll update tags as i go along, and this will probably only be a couple chapters long. the rating will probably stay at T, too, because this is meant to be sweet and cheesy. 
> 
> thanks to everyone who encouraged me to write this mess!! especially [kat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/firepaladins/pseuds/firepaladins) and [minah](http://archiveofourown.org/users/manamune/pseuds/manamune) who are both AMAZING writers. speaking of which, please look at this [beautiful rendering of the keith meme pic](https://twitter.com/ritsuizus/status/824120533084237825) and, if you're interested, the [cool NASA poster](https://jaimeirastorza.files.wordpress.com/2015/04/x-planes-nmaf.jpg) lance keeps in his room.
> 
> love you all lots, and i hope you enjoy!! comments and kudos are always appreciated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a little note that this entire first chapter is from lance's pov!!

 

_Lance_

Lance can’t believe he hasn’t deleted this stupid app yet.

Okay… okay, maybe that’s not completely true. He knows exactly why he hasn’t deleted it yet— and why he downloaded Tinder in the first place, to be honest. Because drunk Lance makes poor decisions sometimes, especially when he’s feeling lonely and worthless.

Tonight just so happens to be one of those awful nights.

He and Hunk planned this party in advance, as per usual. They’re only a couple weeks into the new semester and homework loads are still reasonable. Unless you’re Hunk, but that’s what he gets for having a dual major. And in mechanical and aerospace engineering, no less. Regardless, their professors have been kind, and there aren’t any assignments either of them _have_ to work on until Sunday.

It’s a Saturday night. That’s when they usually invite people over. A couple dozen guests filter into their tiny apartment with racks of beer, bottles of liquor, and bags of pong balls. Scattered around the apartment are bowls of chips, boxes of delivery pizza, and a few stacks of playing cards; everything is there and accounted for.

Lance usually loves wandering through the crowds at parties, but not tonight. For some reason, he’s feeling kind of shitty. Which is weird and definitely unwelcome, but Lance is familiar with the daunting rain cloud hanging over his head.

“Dude, are you sure you don’t want to send these people home?” Hunk asks, for what’s probably the hundredth time that evening. “I’m sure they wouldn’t mind. We can just do this next week or something.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I swear.” Lance kicks his socked feet up and stretches out over the length of the couch. “I’ll just chill over here for now. I might get up in an hour or two and make the rounds.”

“You can always just go to your room if it gets to be too much. I really don’t mind kicking them all out, though.”

“Hunk, seriously. I appreciate it, but it’s all good. In the hood.” Lance snickers, and Hunk, naturally, rolls his eyes. “Go have fun. I heard Pidge is over there killing it at beer pong. You need to make sure she doesn’t steal your champion title.”

“I thought that was _your_ title?”

“That hasn’t been decided yet,” Lance clarifies. “Pidge and I kick everyone’s asses. That’s why we usually play separately now instead of on the same team. To be fair to all those poor unsuspecting assholes.”

“Yeah… yeah, that’s right.”

“Hunk, buddy, have fun! It’s a party! Give me a few minutes, okay? And I’ll come watch the pong table later.”

Hunk seems reluctant to leave but winces as techno music starts blaring from the speakers in the living room. Skrillex, maybe? He flashes Lance one more concerned glance before heading over to the circle of cackling people cheering on Pidge. Lance watches with a little snicker as Hunk points accusingly at the speakers, and Pidge pretends like she can’t hear him over the pulsating beat.

That’s how Lance ends up here: perusing Tinder.

Alcohol buzzes pleasantly through his system. He opens the app and taps the screen impatiently as it tries to pinpoint his location. The dumb “There are no new people around you” line isn’t displayed, though, which is a solid start. Eventually, the first person pops up.

A pretty girl stares back at him, blond curls framing her heart-shaped face. She’s definitely cute. Her pictures include a chubby black cat and slew of sorority friends. Lance shrugs and swipes right. _Again, a nice start_.

He flips through about twenty more people, half of which are right swipes, before his fingers freeze.

_Oh no._

He’s about to swipe left— because there’s no way he can swipe right on _this_ guy— but hesitates. The distinct blue-purple eyes, dark hair long enough to curl at the nape of his neck, and thin lips set in an indifferent line, are not completely unattractive features. He stands in front of a motorcycle, arms folded across his chest. Lance squints at the font below, just to be sure. **Keith** , 21.

 _Definitely him_. It’s the Keith from a couple of his engineering classes, the very same Keith he’s been trying to outscore for years. The Keith that Pidge has been trying to drag to parties since she wormed her way into Hunk and Lance’s lives their sophomore year. And he’s also the same Keith on Lance’s Tinder, which can only mean one thing.

Keith is into dudes.

Now, it doesn’t mean he’s only into guys, but it definitely piques Lance’s curiosity. He scrolls over and, unsurprisingly, the second picture is of his bike. The third is one of him with Pidge, who looks a great deal happier to be in the picture than Keith does. There’s a guy standing on his other side, an arm over Keith’s shoulder, and Lance distantly recalls Pidge mentioning him having an older brother. He swears the dude is best friends with Pidge’s brother, Matt.

Lance flips to the next picture and it’s— it’s a selfie. Keith stands in front of the mirror in a fitted black shirt and fingerless gloves, legs accentuated by spandex pants and, wow, Keith actually has a cliché gym selfie on his profile.

The realization makes Lance scoff and shake his head. But, at the same time, Lance has to admit… Keith isn’t hard on the eyes. The dude is sort of scrawny but certainly in-shape. Lance doesn’t know if Keith runs or does karate or taekwondo or lifts weights or— fuck, it doesn’t _matter_ because, boy, is his body nice to look at. How has he never noticed before?

 _Chill out, Lance_ , he chides himself and quickly swipes over to the fifth picture. Keith isn’t in the actual shot and, shockingly enough, neither is his bike. Neither is Pidge or Shiro. It’s a nature shot, likely from the top of one of the lookouts at the nearest park. The green hillsides of mountains are illuminated by the sun overhead, rays of light gleaming off the surface of the river nestled between them. Was Keith into photography? Or did he just like nature? Going on hikes?

Lance hums softly to himself and flips over to the last picture. And, well. He doesn’t know what he expected, but it definitely wasn’t this.

It’s the knife cat meme. The damn _knife cat meme_ with Keith’s face very crudely Photoshopped over the cat’s face. _Oh my God?_ Lance would love to credit Keith for the genius idea, but the picture has ‘Pidge’ written all over it.

Lance covers his mouth to stop a stream of giggles from escaping. He finally turns his attention to the bio. There’s a list of several random items underneath his name and age.

_bikes, nature, fitness, and aliens_

The guy is practically begging to be meme’d.

_also I like cats and knives. if the last picture didn’t make that obvious_

Freakin’ Pidge. Lance wishes he could’ve seen Keith’s reaction to her additions to his profile. Although, he must not have been too upset if he didn’t take the time to change it back or make adjustments. And, boy, does Lance have a lot of questions.

Primarily: why does Keith have a Tinder?

He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would care about dating or (knowing how some users are) getting laid. Of course, Lance has no idea if Keith identifies as gay or bisexual or pansexual or— who knows. He certainly isn’t on the straight and narrow, though, if you catch Lance’s drift.

Lance’s finger hovers over the profile. He could do it. He could totally swipe right on the mysterious and elusive Keith. Hell, maybe he might _match_ with the dude. Not that he expects Keith to ever swipe right on his profile. The couple of group shots from he and Hunk’s parties would likely be the greatest deterrent, especially the one with a lampshade on his head and the other with red solo cups strapped to his chest like bra cups.

But who gives a flying fuck? The alcohol is telling him it’s a good idea, a harmless idea, because it’s not like Keith will match with him. And, even if he does, so what? Lance can explain he was drunk when he did it and _bam_ — no hard feelings. No awkward encounters in class. Just the usual uncertain eye contact in the hallways.

 _I’m doin’ it_. Lance giggles under his breath and drags the cat meme picture to the right side of his screen.

But this, friends, is why one shouldn’t tempt fate over Tinder.

Because, by some ridiculous twist of fate, they’re a match.

Lance stares blankly at the screen, vision swimming a bit from the jungle juice trickling through his system. It… has to be some kind of joke. Right? Maybe Keith doesn’t even run his own Tinder account? Pidge probably forced him to make one and sits, sorting through strangers whenever she gets bored.

“What the fuck,” Lance mutters to himself. He shakes his head, hard, almost hard enough to give himself the beginnings of an alcohol-induced headache. He pinches his arm and winces. He looks away from the phone, back, away, and back again.

 _Nope, still there_. Two little circles, one with Lance’s favorite selfie and the other with Keith’s bike picture. “It’s a match!” the screen proclaims much too excitedly.

Lance quickly locks his phone screen and tosses it toward the opposite end of the couch. There’s a soft thud as it hits the cushion and then it falls, flipping over. The tiny part of his brain that retains sobriety thanks his past self for purchasing a sturdy case for the damn thing.

“Wait, oh.” Lance dives for the phone and tucks it into his pocket. He moves a bit too fast, and the room turns on its axis. “Woah, buddy, you better slow down on the fucking jungle juice,” he scolds himself.

Lance tucks the phone into his pocket, hoping not to make any more regrettable decisions for the rest of the evening.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Dude, I’m so glad you seem to be doing better.” Hunk pats Lance solidly on the back and returns his attention to the current game of Asshole. “You looked… gloomy. Gloomy Lance is no fun at these things. I was worried.”

Lance snorts and presses his cards to his chest. He’s constantly impressed by how Hunk manages to string together full sentences when he’s several drinks (and shots) deep.  The guy easily drinks Lance under the table. He’d _kill_ for that tolerance. Pidge has called him a “lightweight” on more occasions than he’d like to admit. And the sad thing is she’s definitely not wrong.

“It’s fine,” Lance drawls, dragging out the ‘i’ until Hunk’s eyebrows crawl all the way up his forehead. “Just a rough week, ya know? And— and! I found some cute people on Tinder so… really, who’s winning here?”

Hunk clicks his tongue and then surveys his hand of cards. He sets two Jacks on the growing pile in the middle of their makeshift circle. And Lance curses loudly because hot _damn_ his largest pair is a set of measly 4’s. Or maybe they’re 9’s? Either way, he’s screwed.

“Dammit, dude,” Lance sighs and reaches for his half-empty cup of vodka and Sprite. “I’m gonna be the Asshole again at this rate.”

“You’ll always be the Asshole in our hearts.” Pidge touches a hand to her chest and pretends to wipe away tears with the other. Lance sticks his tongue out at her from across the circle.

“The worst president ever…”

“I’m sorry, there’s no way I heard that right.” Pidge gestures at Lance. “Drink up, nerd.”

“It’s _the tailor_.”

“Yeah, no, that’s definitely not your nickname. You can’t just give yourself a nickname! Other people do that for you.”

“The sharpshooter?”

Pidge makes an obnoxious buzzer sound. She takes a healthy sip from her beer as she throws down her last card and languidly leans back. “Also a big fat nope.”

Lance opens his mouth to protest but, suddenly, his pocket vibrates.

One of the guys nearby whistles appreciatively, watching Lance unlock his phone. Rolo, that’s his name. Or at least Lance thinks. “Talking to someone important over there?” he asks groggily. Lance can barely make out the last couple words through the slur in his voice.

“Nah, just checkin’ Tinder. Probably a new match.” Lance opens the app and, yep, there she is. A pretty, tall girl with strawberry blond hair, glasses, and an absolutely blinding smile. Lance smiles back at her. “Bingo.”

He’s about to close Tinder— because messaging people after drinking this much alcohol is _never_ a good idea— but something silent, something evil, urges him to scroll through his other matches. And there, still very near the top of the list, is Keith.

_You should message him._

_No, you definitely shouldn’t do that. No_.

_Do it._

“Shut the fuck up,” he grumbles out loud. Lance’s conscious engages in a heated war with his drunk alter ego. His finger hovers over the tiny circle for a few seconds before he finally caves and presses the screen. The icon at the top is small, but not small enough to obscure Keith’s deadpan expression.

Okay, now, Lance isn’t known for making the best decisions. He knows this. But the thought of sending Keith some ridiculous pickup line is far too tempting. What would it hurt anyway? He could always pass it off as “drunk texting” or maybe he could just unmatch Keith immediately afterward and, boomity boom, problem solved.

Lance glances around the circle, just to make sure Hunk and Pidge are thoroughly distracted, before pulling up his keyboard. There are so many terrible ones to choose from. Lance has seen some of the most cringe-worthy shit. He needs it to be relevant, but it shouldn’t be difficult. Keith’s profile provides a plethora of juicy meme material. A meme gold mine, honestly.

There is _one_ , though, that Lance has always wanted to use.

**_is your mom an alien? because dat ass is out of this world_ **

Oh God, oh God, he’s dying on the inside. He really just sent that message. To _Keith_ , of all people. Keith, who glares at anyone who tries to take the seats on either side of him in their flight dynamics class. Keith, who refuses to go to a single of their parties, even if only the original trio members— Hunk, Pidge, and Lance— are present. Keith, who has an awkward fucking post-workout selfie on his Tinder profile.

Lance waits for a few minutes, maybe an hour, who knows, before he starts getting anxious. They’re in the middle of a round of Asshole when Lance checks his phone. Still nothing. It isn’t until Pidge has claimed her sixth consecutive presidency and instills a second player rule that Lance lets his frustration get the better of him.

 _Stupid Keith. Probably thinks he’s better than me or something. With that stupid,_ stupid _mullet of his_. Lance angrily scrolls through his matches once again and stares at his earlier message. Is Keith really that much of a party pooper that he can’t even appreciate a dumb pickup line?

“Fine,” Lance grumbles, quiet enough that no one else appears to hear him. “I see how it is.”

The keyboard fills the bottom of the screen, and Lance types another message.

**_the aliens made me swipe right_ **

And another.

**_hey baby wanna take a ride in my flying saucer?_ **

Holy shit. Typing that message alone made Lance cringe; he can only imagine what Keith will think when he opens it. Lance kind of hopes he’ll laugh. Or at least crack a smile. Does Keith smile? For safe measure, Lance decides to tack on a more serious message.

**_well you seem cool as fuck_ **

This is it- this is the end of Lance McClain. He’s now sent four consecutive unanswered messages to Keith on Tinder. And the first three are a couple of the most outrageous pickup lines he’s ever used before.

“Messaging that new match of yours?”

Lance squeaks and hastily stows away his phone. He turns, wide-eyed, toward Hunk. “Huh?”

Hunk gestures at the lump on his hip, faint blue light blinking through denim. “I saw you typing away over there. Fingers of fury-“ Hunk mimics his rapid-fire movements- “that’s you. So I figured it was the girl you just matched with on Tinder. Or, well, the guy. Doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Lance manages to answer. “Yeah, it was.” Which isn’t technically a lie, now that he thinks about it. He and Keith _did_ match, after all. As fucked up as that is.

“Just be careful, buddy. I know how your drunk texts can be.”

“I feel you,” Lance says. He silently wills his hand to move from his bulging pocket, but it refuses to do as he wants. “I’ll be careful.”

“Typical,” Pidge pipes up. She proudly fixes her attention on the girl next to her as she sets down her last card. “Well, well, well. I won again. I’m sure everyone’s surprised. And I think the president mandates that everyone switch to playing spin the bottle now.”

 _Oh boy_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Lance can barely drag himself out of bed the next morning.

Hunk is an _amazing_ friend and runs out to grab the two of them some burgers and fries from the closest Five Guys. One double cheeseburger and regular cup of fries later, Lance starts to feel remotely more human. He takes something for the headache rattling inside his skull and chugs an entire bottle of water. Well, actually two bottles. He’s dehydrated, okay, and they ran out of Gatorade a couple days ago.

Once his stomach is full, headache subsided, Lance slinks into his room and gets to work on his assignments. There’s a shit ton of coding involved, and Lance is ready to jump out the window. Put an end to the shitshow that is his life. These are the moments he’s especially thankful he’s friends with Pidge.

Homework keeps him distracted for most of the day. Any breaks are spent eating or staring aimlessly at the ceiling of his room. He doesn’t check social media and opts to wait to check texts before he goes to bed. His friends will survive. Plus, the most important dude of the bunch lives with Lance.

By the time midnight rolls around, Lance crawls into bed. Ten minutes is all it takes for him to drop into dreamland. He fantasizes about lakes filled with orange soda, Swedish Fish swimming around like actual fish, and canoes made of hollowed out waffle-cones.

There’s a glimpse of dark hair and- Lance can’t tell. He doesn’t know. His dreams are always pretty bizarre the night after a party. And that’s coming from someone with a vivid imagination and the ability to occasionally lucid dream.

 _Too bad there aren’t any candy mermaids_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Monday’s are the worst.

Lance almost doesn’t get out of bed the following morning. Screw his classes. Screw his professors and their garbage homework. Screw the people on campus who would probably chastise him for not showing up and make him feel like a big ole disappointment and— _dammit_. Yeah, that’s what finally pulls him out from under the covers.

He kicks the week off with flight dynamics. Which is just fan-freaking-tastic on days like this when he’d rather be at home, sleeping for the next… oh, ten hours. At least.

Slipping quietly into the front row, Lance sets his backpack down and folds the desk over his lap. The room is filled with the sounds of other students trudging in, equally unenthused about being there at such an early hour. They talk animatedly amongst themselves, but Lance doesn’t hear a word of it. Headphones in, he hums along to the tune of “Mr. Blue Sky” and takes the chance to stare at the blank board at the front of the lecture hall.

(Of course he’s not zoning out— that’s crazy talk.)

And, sometime during his usual Zone Out Session, Lance must slip into an alternate dimension. It’s the only explanation for what happens next.

“Hey.”

“Jesus Ch—“ Lance nearly jumps out of his own skin. A headphone slips free from his ear when he jerks to attention, eyes bulging out of his skull, as he comes face-to-face with none other than Keith. _Tinder_ Keith. Grumpy maybe-photographer Keith. “Oh.”

“Are you—“ Keith’s face contorts into the weirdest of expressions and then his jaw snaps shut. He motions at Lance’s phone, sitting on the desk in front of him. “Do you— um?”

“Do I…?”

“Is that your phone?”

Lance blinks. “Yeah? Yeah, it’s my phone.”

He gives Keith a quick onceover. He’s wearing skin-tight dark jeans, black combat boots, and a scarlet red shirt, under a worn leather jacket. A huge NASA patch emblazons one arm and a Garrison Flight Academy on the other. He hardly knows Keith, having only watched him from a distance, and knows what little he _does_ know thanks to Pidge.

“Don’t people usually start conversations with, like, a ‘hi’ or something? Maybe a ‘hey, dude, mind if I sit next to you?’” Lance crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in his chair.

The slightest flush tinges Keith’s cheeks. His brows furrow, regarding Lance critically. “You don’t know why I walked over here.”

“Sure, sure. But I also know you usually sit a few seats over. Down there, yeah, by that dude with the spiky hair. And yet you’re currently standing next to yours truly. So it’s not all that far-fetched to think you came over to say ‘hi,’ you know?”

Keith grimaces— he definitely knows.

“Although… you don’t like it when anyone sits on either side of you. I’ve noticed that, too. Is it because you need extra space for ‘business in the front, party in the back?’”

“Are you making fun of my _hair_?”

Lance shrugs. “It’s a mullet.”

“And?”

“And? _And?_ It’s 2017, buddy. That style died years ago.”

Lance is really hoping Keith doesn’t recognize him. Casual, he needs to play it casual. He needs to convince Keith he doesn’t secretly like his hair and wonder how thick it is and what it’d feel like to run his fingers through— okay, yeah, not going there. This dude is supposed to be his academic rival. Lance just has to keep a level head, scare Keith off, and get ready for lecture. Piece of cake.

“Whatever. I don’t even know why I bothered to come over here. You were probably trashed when you messaged me last night anyway.”

 _When you messaged me last night_.

Lance’s brain shuts down from that single sentence alone. He opts to play dumb. “Message?” 

If at all possible, Keith looks even more anxious. “Yeah… you have— you’re on that Tinder site or whatever, right?”

“Okay, first off,” Lance starts, lifting a single finger in the air, “Tinder is an app, not a website. Secondly…”

Lance wants to curl up in a ball and die. This is awful, the worst case scenario playing out in front of his very own eyes. Keith was supposed to ignore him. He was supposed to read Lance’s message, dismiss it as drunk gibberish, and carry on as if nothing happened. Never in a million years did Lance expect Keith to _approach_ him about this. Lance has matched with countless people on Tinder who haven’t answered his messages— and even more avoid him in public.

So why did Keith have to be different?

“Secondly?” Keith prompts, glancing at Lance’s two raised fingers.

“Uh, secondly… yes? I have a Tinder?”

“You don’t sound too sure about that. Do you or do you not?”

 _God, when did this turn into an interrogation_? Lance sighs resignedly. “Yeah, I have one.”

Keith offers a slight nod and reaches into his jacket. The leather is worn, clearly a hand-me-down, and it completes the Bad Boy image he has going on. Lance itches to reach out and touch, to brush his hand up the length of his arm and— _that’s weird, Lance. Weird._

Keith pulls a phone out of his pocket and, oh no, why is he unlocking the screen?

Lance chuckles nervously. “What are you—”

“This is you, right?” Keith holds the phone in front of Lance’s face. It’s unmistakably him. The selfie, one of Lance’s absolute favorites, grins smugly back at him. Keith tilts the screen slightly. “Lance. You’re Lance.”

He doesn’t word it like a question at all. _The little bastard already knows he’s found me out_. Lance shrugs by way of agreement. There’s no point in arguing when his own fucking face is right there, in the palm of Keith’s hand.

“And based on these pictures… you were totally shit-faced last night, weren’t you?”

He was, but that wasn’t the primary reason he’d sought out Keith. “I was feelin’ myself, sure.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Figures.”

 _Lie, Lance, lie!_ “I would’ve swiped right whether I was drunk off my ass or totally sober.”

_No, no, no, no, what the actual fuck is wrong with you, no—_

“Would you have sent those shitty pickup lines even if you were sober? Please say no. I need you to say no or I’m walking away.”

“Um…”

“Alright, well, it’s been nice. I guess. But I think I’ll just see myself out.”

“Wait!” Lance finds himself yelling after Keith. To his surprise— and delight— Keith stops in his tracks and turns. “Aw, c’mon, it’s _Tinder._ You’re supposed to open with a dumb icebreaker. That’s what makes it fun!”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Maybe a little, but it keeps things interesting.” Lance flashes Keith a weak smile. “Besides, it got your attention, didn’t it?”

“If by attention, you mean I read each new message, cringed harder every time, and considered deleting the damn thing off my phone…”

“Fine, geez, your definition of ‘fun’ is totally different than mine,” Lance says, “I get it if you don’t want any part of me after all that. But just know I wasn’t trying to be a dick. I didn’t do it— I didn’t do it just to get in your pants.”

Keith purses his lips, nose scrunching. Lance tries desperately not to think about how cute the gesture is but, well, he fails spectacularly. Keith scrutinizes Lance like he would one of their flight dynamics problems, like he scrutinizes their professor on a daily basis whenever the guy talks about his personal flight experience and attempts relating it to course material.

“The last message,” Keith begins, eyes fixed on Lance. “You sent all of those messages. Even the last one. About…”

“About how cool you are? Yeah, dude,” Lance interjects, “And I was serious. I don’t know you all that well, and we're kinda rivals” —Keith scoffs at that— “but Pidge seems to think pretty highly of you, which says a lot. Plus, we’re in the same major, and this professor is lowkey in love with you. Even though he also seems to hate you? Confusing stuff, but, yeah, you must be smart.”

Lance watches in fascination as this stoic, mysterious dork has the nerve to blush. Crimson floods his face and, yep, there’s no way in hell Lance can stop the word _cute_ from popping up in his head now. Keith generally has an angry sort of air about him, the sort of attitude you expect from someone who’s always raring for a fight. But like this— Lance thinks he’s glimpsing a new side of Keith, a side not many people are lucky enough to see.

And, God, does that do _things_ to his poor little bisexual heart.

“When’s your next party?”

“Huh?”

“When are you and your friends having another party? I could come—“ Keith hesitates mid-sentence. “I could head over with Pidge and stay for a little bit.”

Lance grins. It looks like he’s been right all along; Keith is full of surprises.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The rest of the week seems to pass by in a blur.

Lance pays attention in class as usual and finishes his assignments– no problem there. But it’s like he’s operating on autopilot or something. Wake up, eat breakfast, go to class, eat lunch, come home, maybe workout, finish homework, eat dinner, go to sleep. Lance feels like a robot, carrying out the days’ preprogrammed tasks.

Maybe Pidge finally built a full-scale robot and stuck Lance’s consciousness inside; he wouldn’t be shocked. And, as distracted as he’s been all week, it wouldn’t have been difficult to catch him off guard.

When Saturday finally rolls around, Lance is amazed he hasn’t gone completely out of his mind.

Hunk pours a bag of Dorito’s into a bowl and scooches across the kitchen to check the oven, peeking at the boneless wings and potato wedges cooking inside. The timer isn’t set to go off for another ten minutes, and Lance is _starving_.

“Hey, Lance?”

“Hm?” Lance hums. He leans his elbows against the bar countertop, propping his chin in his hands. The chips and salsa are glaring at him from their place on the counter; he’s sure of it.

“Are you okay? You seem a little… preoccupied.”

 _Shit_. Hunk has always been obnoxiously perceptive. It’s sad how easy it is for him to pick up on Lance’s mood changes. He can practically tell when Lance is upset before Lance _himself_ even realizes it.

“Yeah, I’m totally fine. Fine as wine,” Lance answers, sitting up a bit straighter in his seat. “You worry too much, buddy.”

“Maybe I do, but still. You’ve been acting sorta weird ever since our party last week. I didn’t notice you get any new numbers. Usually, you get at least… like, five over the course of the night.”

“Eh, no one really caught my eye this time around.” Lance shrugs. It’s supposed to come off as nonchalant. Well, _supposed_ to. “Plus, I was having a shitty day, remember? Hard to put the moves on all the ladies and gents when I’m feeling like garbage.”

“I guess…”

“Listen, dude, I would tell you if something was wrong. You know that.”

“I do, don’t get me wrong,” Hunk says with a nod. He pauses for a moment and, thankfully, switches topics. “Oh, totally random, but did you hear about who might be coming tonight?”

Lance smirks. Now, this is safe territory. Whenever a cute girl or guy is invited to one of their parties, Hunk is the first to let Lance know. He’s quite the matchmaker when he wants to be and, ever since he and Shay started dating, he’s been even more adamant about finding someone for Lance. Double dating– he really wants to go on double dates. Well, he’s also an awesome friend who wants what’s best for Lance, but that’s a given.

“ _No_ ,” Lance fake gasps, bringing a hand to his mouth. ”Who? Is it that Chelsea girl from Pidge’s physics class? Or that dude who looks like a supermodel and sits next to you in fluid mechanics?”

“Nope and nope. Guess again.”

“Uh… Jake from State Farm?”

Hunk glares daggers in his direction. “Lance, seriously? A _good_ guess. I doubt you’re gonna get it.”

“Nyma?”

“No, not your ex-girlfriend, dude. She’s cool, but that would just be weird. Try harder.”

“Rolo? He came last time, though.”

“No sir-ee,” Hunk singsongs.

“Ugh, fine. I hate these guessing games. Please, just tell me already? I’m going crazy over here.”

Hunk motions for Lance to come closer and, of course, Lance complies. Hunk lifts a hand and shields his moving lips from anyone– the ghosts because their apartment is almost definitely haunted– who may be listening to their conversation. “You won’t believe this.”

“Okay,” Lance huffs.

“Like… it’ll blow your mind.”

“Yeah, yeah, get on with it already. The suspense is killing me.”

Hunk pauses for dramatic effect and, just when Lance is about to scream, finishes in a whisper, “Keith.”

Yes, his life is a joke, in case you were wondering. A certifiable and totally _unfunny_ joke. The kind with chirping crickets and everything.

Lance has known Keith planned on coming since Monday. _Monday_. But of course he couldn’t tell Hunk. He loves the guy to death, but Lance knew exactly what would happen had he told him. He would’ve drowned in the usual slew of questions. Have you guys been talking? How long? When did it start? Do you like him?

_Bleh._

It’s bad enough that Lance is crushing on Keith– because, yes, he’s accepted he has a teeny tiny crush, at this point– but toss in Hunk’s protectiveness and the whole situation goes “to hell in a handbasket,” as his mom would say.

“Really?” Lance attempts to feign surprise. “That antisocial dickbag?”

“Hey, dude, give him a chance. He doesn’t get out much, and Pidge has been trying to get him over here for ages. The least we can do is be good hosts.”

Oh, Lance plans on being a good host. The best host. “I’ll behave myself, don’t worry. He’ll probably just ignore me anyway.” Lance gestures at the couch in the other room. “He’ll claim the couch and chill there for the rest of the night. I can almost guarantee it.”

Hunk scoffs and shakes his head. “Maybe. But you never know… he seems like the kind of guy who’s full of surprises.”

Lance stifles a laugh at that. _You have no idea, Hunk._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Lance wishes he hadn’t been the one to answer the door when Keith and Pidge show up.

He wishes he hadn’t felt his face flush pink at the sight of Keith, dressed in the kind of clothes he often wears to class. He wishes that a simple black t-shirt and skinny jeans didn’t make him weak in the knees. He wishes Keith hadn’t met his flustered greeting with a quiet, “Hey.” And, God, does he wish Pidge would stop smirking in his direction every time he and Keith are within a couple feet of each other.

The party started about an hour ago. Most of the guests have filed into the room with the pong table. Lance bought the plastic, dinky thing dirt cheap from a friend of his, and Hunk keeps it stored in his closet. On nights like this, they set it up in the living room, close to the opposite wall and as far from the television as possible.

Hunk and Shay are halfway through a heated game against Rolo and his friend. Lance never did get his name- but that’s beside the point.

“So…” Pidge slides over and trills, to be heard over the din of excited voices. “Lance, my good friend. You having fun?”

Lance knows that tone. It’s the sort of tone you’d expect from an evil villain as they explain the details of their plot to take over the world. Which, come to think of it, is pretty fitting since Pidge could be an evil genius mastermind, if she so desired.

“Uh, yeah. Duh. Why?”

“Hm, nothing. You just seemed… _really_ happy tonight.”

“Okay? I’ve had a pretty kickass week. Finished all my homework early, got an A on my first thermodynamics quiz.” Like with Hunk, Lance tries to keep his voice neutral. “You and Hunk both need to chill.”

“Lance… I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“Are you sure? You could pass as a high school- ouch!” Lance winces, rubbing the tender area Pidge just dug her bony elbow into. “Fine, I deserved that. But, seriously, I have no idea what you’re getting at.”

“You’ve been ogling Keith _all fucking night_ and didn’t expect me to notice?”

Nervous laughter bursts from Lance’s mouth. “What? Are you crazy?”

“Not any more than normal. Keith told me that he was coming so he could see _you_.”

 _Oh_.

There’s no way out of this one– not when Pidge clearly knows the truth. Plus, his brain is pretty stuck on the whole “Keith is here to see you” thing. Because he figured Keith wouldn’t even show up in the first place, let alone seek him out.

“The mullet of truth strikes again…” Lance mutters.

“Chill, chill. Go talk to him or something! You’ve been too busy drooling to actually chat, and I think he’s starting to feel pretty damn awkward.”

“Pfft, that was my plan all along.” Lance flourishes his hand, tipping his chin toward Keith. “Gotta keep the guests happy.”

“Yeah, ‘happy’ is a word for it…”

Lance decides to let the comment slide for now and carefully pushes his way through the crowd. Keith stands on the other side of the table, closest to Hunk and Shay. His arms are folded across his chest, and his gaze is currently boring holes through the back of a particularly loud partygoer's head.

He attempts to ignore the nervous fluttering in his stomach— _go away, you damn butterflies_ — and grins. Keith doesn’t seem to notice Lance’s approach and continues glaring.

“You know, if you keep crossing your arms like that, they might freeze that way,” Lance teases. His smile grows when Keith flinches, wide eyes turning on Lance like he’s materialized out of thin air before him. “Hey, there.”

“When did— whatever.” Keith huffs— seriously huffs— and refuses to meet Lance’s stare. The current pong game is obviously more important. “Nice of you to finally come say ‘hi.’”

“I can’t even argue that one. I’ve been making the rounds but shame on me, neglecting the special guest of the evening.”

“Special guest?”

“Most of these losers show up to all of our parties. They’re the ‘regular guests.’ Then, you have the hosts. Hunk“ –he points out his roommate– “this fine piece of ass” –he playfully smacks his own ass and Keith scoffs– “and Pidge. Because, let’s face it, she’s pretty much a host regardless of whether she lives here or not.

“And you, my dude, are the ‘special guest.’”

Keith mulls the words over in his head, brows scrunched up in a way that Lance shouldn’t find as adorable as he does. “Why?”

“Didn’t Pidge tell you? You’re on the VIP list!”

Poor Keith’s eyes go even wider, wide as saucers. “Uh–“

“Kidding, kidding,” Lance snorts, “But only a little. I mean, for as long as we’ve been trying to get your ass here, I’d say you qualify as a VIP guest. Or… the VIM? Very Important Mullet?”

“God, you’re so hung up on my hair. Does it really bother you that much?”

“It’s the 21st century…”

“Yeah?”

“I shouldn’t have to go into any more detail than that.” Lance shakes his finger at Keith. “You should know better, young man.”

Lance anticipates a good eye roll or Keith telling him to fuck off or, hell, maybe even walking away. But no. He fucking laughs. This gorgeous human being tosses back his head and laughs like a dork. Unbridled and genuine laughter fills the space between them, mostly drowned out by the surrounding cacophony of drunkenness. Lance savors the fact he’s the only one who seemed to have heard it.

“That… that wasn’t even one of my better jokes, dude,” Lance chuckles anxiously.

“You’re just so weird sometimes,” Keith explains, once his laughter dies down a bit. “I don’t even know how to describe it.”

“I’m not sure whether I should be offended or…?”

“Offended. Definitely.”

But Keith’s body language tells Lance he should feel downright flattered right now.

“We should go somewhere quieter,” Keith continues, “I mean– we don’t have to. It’s whatever you want.”

Lance’s brain is broken. Seriously, he can hardly remember his own name because Keith is  _propositioning_ him or some shit. It’s the closest he can imagine Keith getting to the whole cliché “let’s get out of here” excuse.

“Totally. We can go into my room if you want?”

Keith nods jerkily. “Cool.”

“Cool,” Lance mimes, drawing out the ‘o’ sound.

A couple uncomfortable moments of silence pass before Lance realizes they’re standing there, doing nothing. Not moving towards his room. Not talking. Literally, they are frozen in place like pieces of furniture, while people chat and mill around them.

Before he can lose confidence, Lance reaches out and snags Keith’s wrist. Keith outright gapes at him, confusion rolling off of him in waves. “C’mon, buddy, let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

“We’re not actually leaving the apartment, are we?”

“My room? Remember?” Lance lets out an overdramatic, longsuffering sigh and tugs Keith in the direction of the hallway. “That mullet is absorbing all your memories. You probably don’t even remember what you had for breakfast this morning.”

“…”

“Oh God, you got quiet! You really don’t remember what you ate for—“

“You have a problem, Lance.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

This might also qualify as one of Lance’s infamous Bad Decisions.

It’s easy for Lance to act cool and like he has his shit together when there are other people around. Hunk has a knack for making Lance seem more suave than he actually is. But when he’s trapped in his room with Keith, truly alone, for the first time, none of that matters.

 _He fits in here._ The thought crosses Lance’s mind before he can stop it. He wants to kick himself but, holy balls, it’s true.

A wide variety of posters for sci-fi shows and movies, for NASA, for the Garrison Academy, fill the walls. There are even a couple from when he was little and his mom would help him tear posters out of National Geographic magazines. The ceiling is also covered but with glow-in-the-dark stars. He remembers the day Pidge helped, handing stars up to Lance who was much taller and could effortlessly reach the ceiling from his bed.

His desk sits in the opposite corner. The shelf over his working space is filled with books, old comics from his dad, and a handful of manga volumes. There are other little collectibles scattered throughout the room. Keith circles the perimeter, peering curiously at Lance’s assortment of weird items. A moon night light, a stuffed Saturn plush, one of his most prized surfboards— the entire room is filled to the brim with items that simply scream ‘Lance’ and yet… Keith doesn’t seem out of place.

The realization stirs something inside Lance’s chest he’d rather not confront.

“Hi, I’m Lance McClain, and welcome to my crib,” Lance says. Keith pauses his inspection of the American X-Planes poster near Lance’s bed. “You like planes?”

Keith presses his palm to the picture of the X-15. “Yeah… yeah, my dad used to fly them.”

“That’s awesome!” Lance can’t help his outburst. The five-year-old trapped inside his body is _dying_ to pilot a plane. “Is that what got you into the whole aerospace field?”

“Sort of…”

“Okay, sit down. There’s obviously more to it than that.” Lance takes a seat at the end of his bed and eagerly pats the spot next to him. “Let’s hear it, mullet.”

“My name is Keith, okay,” Keith answers with a sigh but joins Lance anyway. “And do I really have to share that? I basically just met you.”

“If we’re going to be friends, I think I deserve to know. Here, I’ll go first! I got into it because I’ve always wanted to be a pilot. And, I don’t know, there’s just something I really love about planes and space and all that fun stuff. So the thought of helping build or design an aircraft...”

The very beginnings of a smile start to take shape on Keith’s lips; Lance somehow manages to live through it.

“That makes sense, though,” Keith concedes. “But my other reason is… you’re going to laugh at me.”

“I swear I won’t.”

“We just met, Lance, but I already know that’s a load of bullshit.”

“Hey! I have serious conversations with Hunk and Pidge all the time. Just spit it out already, dude. I’m sure I have far more embarrassing stories from my past. Hell, I have a shit load from freshman year alone!” He offers what he hopes to be a reassuring smile and elbows Keith. “So go ahead. Tell Lancelot what’s on your mind.”

Keith blinks. “Lancelot.”

“That would be me. Now, explain.”

“You’re drunk.”

“It’s hardly a buzz at this point. Stop trying to distract me!”

“Says the guy who just called himself Lancelot—“

“Keith,” Lance whines and, without a second thought, lets his body slump over. He instantly feels Keith stiffen against him. _Uh oh._

“You’re drunk,” Keith repeats, voice strained.

He’s so damn _warm_ and not quite the bony pillow Lance imagined him to be. Not that he’s imagined using Keith as a pillow or anything. Nope, never. And maybe Keith is right, he’s a little buzzed. Certainly not enough to lose control of his own actions, though.

“Only a little,” Lance answers and smirks; his words don’t even come out slurred. Score one for tipsy Lance. “So, tell me.”

Keith shifts in place. “Okay, well… I want to meet an alien.”

Lance musters every ounce of self-control left in his body and contains his laughter. Keith would likely misinterpret it anyway when, in reality, Lance finds the reasoning to be endearing. “Don’t we all?”

“You’re not going to make fun of me?”

“I might slip a couple jokes in, here and there, but no. We all have dreams, dude. And so what if yours is meeting E.T.? I’d love to meet an alien, too. So whenever you finally come across one, you better let me know first. Okay? Not the F.B.I. or C.I.A. _Me_. ”

The air stills. Lance can practically feel the tension hanging in the space around them. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

“You’re the bomb,” Lance insists, and tries to subtly scoot closer. He doubts it’s even remotely subtle. “Now, since you’re the one who wanted to get away from all the craziness… what do you wanna do?”

Still as stiff as a board next to him, Keith clears his throat. “I, uh. I don’t know. There was just so much going on, and I needed some peace and quiet.”

“Ah, so that’s it.”

“…What’s it?”

“Why you never come to our parties. I used to always think it was because you thought you were too good to come over and drink—“

“What the hell?”

“—with us. But it’s really because you’re not much of a social butterfly, huh, Keithy?”

Keith shifts and, for a split second, Lance is sure he’s going to get shoved off the bed. “Don’t call me that,” he grumbles, “And, no, I’m not an asshole. I never thought I was ‘too good’ to hang out with you guys. It’s just the crowds and the drinking… it’s not my thing. At all.”

Lance hums. “That makes sense. It’s alright, dude, I get it. I have an older sister who never got into the whole party scene. And, I mean, our parties aren’t like the ones on frat row. We all know each other somehow, and we play it pretty safe.”

“I know… Pidge has told me before.” Keith pauses and groans. “Constantly tells me.”

“Well, it’s the truth. You’ve always been welcome here. And if you’d rather just chill in my room instead… that would be okay with me.”

Lance can practically feel the tension leaving Keith’s body, loosening his muscles. He definitely doesn’t seem as comfortable as Lance, but it’s an improvement.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool, um. Thank you.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

The room goes silent. Outside, a chorus of “Kick his ass, kick his ass, kick his ass!” echoes throughout the apartment. Lance is pretty sure it’s directed at some drunk sap, seconds away from getting destroyed by Hunk and Shay at pong. He focuses on the noise rather than the far more disconcerting _lack_ of noise inside the cramped confines of his bedroom.

“Do you wanna watch something on Netflix? Like… a movie?”

The invitation has the desired effect. Keith laughs— a real laugh— and starts rattling off all the shows he’s been watching or wanted to watch. There are a few Lance recognizes and loves, while there are others that make Lance giggle because they’re way too ridiculous to actually watch. Keith spends a solid ten minutes defending the cheesy alien movies on the Syfy channel, and Lance spends another fifteen minutes explaining the beauty of _Twin Peaks_. They find a common ground in _X-Files_ and _Stranger Things_ which Lance doesn’t find all that surprising, considering how much Keith is starting to remind him of Mulder.

Somehow, they end up sitting side-by-side on Lance’s bed, laptop between them, watching _Ancient Aliens_ late into the night.

Lance has more fun than he’s had in _months_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Pidge teases him for the rest of the week about sneaking off with Keith. Hunk and Shay gush over how cute they were when Keith eventually went home and Lance led him to the door. Lance isn’t sure which is worse, but he knows his friends are certifiable dicks and need to let him live.

Keith starts sitting next to him in class. It’s both a blessing and a curse because, on one hand, Lance gets a perfect view of Keith’s attractive profile. But, on the other hand, it means the professor starts paying more attention to his existence since Keith _refuses_ to shut up. He’s always raising his hand and asking questions. And, by proxy, the professors start assuming Lance is an equally persistent student.

He’s never been called on so many times in his entire life.

Keith becomes a regular at their weekly get-togethers. As promised, Lance lets him flee to the safety of his room when the drinking games get to be too loud and boisterous for his tastes. And, alright, so what if Lance joins him every time? What if he gives zero shits about the cute new guests and cares a lot more about the dorky genius with a mullet who insists on devising theories for every sci-fi show in existence, cheesy or not?

It’s no big deal or anything.

They also start eating lunch together a couple days a week, when their schedules match up. It’s fantastic, but there’s a voice in the back of Lance’s head that keeps reminding him that he and Keith are only friends.

 _Friends_.

Freakin’ weird. Lance loves having a bunch of friends. He prefers having a small group of close friends and a second, much larger group, of acquaintances to drink with at parties. He’s been that way since high school and yet… Lance winces every time the word crosses his mind and Keith is involved.

On one of the days he eats lunch with Hunk and Pidge, Lance can’t stop thinking about it. Keith, broody but dorky, serious but silly, realistic but out there because the dude believes in aliens and— Keith is different. Totally unique. It’s the _worst_.

“Are you sure nothing happened with you and Keith?” Pidge asks between mouthfuls of pizza. She always starts by eating the cheese and toppings off the top and saves the crust for last.

Right on cue, Lance feels his phone vibrate and glances down to check the notification. A snapchat from Keith.

“Like that!” Hunk points, grinning wide and much too excited. “I didn’t even know you two snapped each other. How long has _that_ been going on?”

Lance shrugs. “I don’t know, I gave him my snap a couple weekends ago. We wanted to watch this new movie on the Syfy channel, and he got all pissy because I couldn’t wait a couple days longer to watch it so we could together.”

Hunk blinks owlishly back at Lance. Pidge freezes, a string of melty cheese dangling from her gaping mouth. Neither say a word, and a guffaw wrenches itself from Lance’s throat. “What?”

Hunk is the first to regain control of his mouth. “I don’t want to freak you out or anything, dude, but… you guys are totally dating.”

Lance almost spills an entire can of orange soda down the front of his shirt. ” _What?_ ”

“Oh, c’mon. You guys are practically inseparable. Plus, I know that Keith spent the night the last couple times he came over. Something _had_ to have happened. You’re” –Pidge swishes her hand through the air, indicating Lance’s whole person– “Lance. You can’t tell me you guys didn’t have crazy, hot s—“

Hunk claps a hand over Pidge’s mouth. Her eyes bulge and then narrow into a murderous glare, directed fully at Hunk. “I think what Pidge is _trying_ to say is that… we know what happens with the girls and guys who spend the night after our parties. And we’re happy that you’re actually still talking to Keith. He’s too cool to be a one night stand.”

They think he slept with Keith. Lance can’t stop the onslaught of mental images at the mere mention of he and Keith, sleeping together. Dark hair plastered to Keith’s forehead, head thrown back as moans and whimpers spill over his lips, heavy with longing. _Lance_ , he would sigh. _Lance_ , between bouts of breathless laughter as their lips slide together, slow and languid, fingers gliding over warm skin. _Lance_ , whispered into the curve of his neck as their breathing eventually settles, wrapped around each other before they drift off to sleep.

Lance is so completely and utterly fucked. And not in the literal sense.

“He’s not— we didn’t— Keith and I are _friends_ ,” Lance stresses. Because they are. If he were to ask Keith right now if they were dating, he would think Lance had lost his mind. “I promise.”

Pidge turns the fiery intensity of her stare on Lance. Hunk lowers his hand and levels Lance with a frustrated look of his own. Lance has seen both expressions far too many times. His stomach sinks.

“You like him,” Pidge deadpans. Her tone leaves no room for argument. Definitive— a statement of fact. “You like Keith.”

“I—“

“You can tell us the truth, buddy. It’s not like we’re going to tell him,” Hunk explains, somewhat softer than Pidge. “But you should be honest with yourself. I’d hate to see either of you get hurt.”

“Guys, we haven’t even _kissed_.”

Hunk looks downright scandalized. “You haven’t?”

“Are you sure?” Pidge leans across the table.

“Uh, yeah? How would I forget something like _that_?”

Lance doesn’t catch his mistake until it’s a second too late.

“I knew it!”

“You _do_ like him!”

Pidge and Hunk both screech at the same time, and Lance motions for them to lower their voices, frantically hissing, “Shhhh. Shh, shhh.”

“This is the cutest thing that’s ever happened to me?” Hunk intones, pressing a hand to his chest.

“You guys are the stupidest dorks I’ve ever met,” Pidge says between bites of pizza crust. “This makes so much sense. I can’t believe I didn’t try to set you guys up sooner.”

“Hunk, you and Shay are sickeningly cute so I don’t want to hear it. And Keith is only a friend, okay?”

Pidge shakes her head. “No, I’m serious about you both being idiots. Keith talks about you _all the fucking time_ around the apartment. Poor Shiro has asked me, like, a thousand times if you two have started going out yet. He said he’s never seen Keith like this before.”

Lance’s heart does something weird inside his chest, flipping and flopping like a fish out of water. He and Keith have had several discussions about siblings, and Lance knows just how important Shiro is to Keith. When Keith’s parents passed away, Shiro’s family took him in and raised him like he was one of their own. If Keith values Lance enough to tell _Shiro_ …

“This sucks ass,” Lance mutters and sinks in his seat, covering his face with his hands. “Like, wow, this sucks.”

“What, because you’re interested in someone for more than just a night of sex?”

“ _Pidge_ ,” Hunk hisses. He offers Lance an apologetic smile. “I’m sure it’s tough. You could always start by asking him out? Like on an actual date?”

And that, friends, is when things get _really_ interesting.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come cry with me over on tumblr or twitter @tobiologist. i really love talking to readers!! and please let me know if you make anything for this story :)


	2. step 2: ask him out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Keith has a bit of a crush and Lance struggles to score an actual date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow i’m so so sorry it took this long for me to update!!!! i finished half of this about two weeks ago, and then school had to go and screw me over. but it’s okay! because it’s done now!! and hopefully the next chapter won’t take quite as much time to finish!
> 
> i also want to start by thanking everyone for the positive feedback!!! i never expected that many people to take an interest in this fic, especially after only the first chapter. and considering it posted weirdly in the tag… yeah THANK YOU!!! i added a couple tags already, mostly because i’ve decided to write this from both lance and keith’s pov’s. there will be a header at the beginning of each section which lets you know the pov. and the rating is still T for obvious reasons. 
> 
> for anyone who doesn’t know what an SR-71 blackbird looks like, [please feast your eyes](http://www.lockheedmartin.com/us/100years/stories/blackbird.html). also this is basically what lance’s “peachy” shirt [looks like](https://www.redbubble.com/people/evabowser/works/25024611-peachy?grid_pos=4&p=classic-tee). i hope everyone continues to enjoy this story!!! kudos, comments, art, etc are all appreciated and i love you all!!!!!

 

_Keith_

He could strangle Pidge for making him download this stupid app.

It makes absolutely no sense. People rattle off a sentence or two about themselves and hope to lure others in with similar interests, shitty jokes, or a pretty face. Potentially all of the above. Keith doesn’t have the lowest self-esteem in the world, but his ego certainly isn’t in the best shape. When it comes to any of the usual Tinder criteria, he feels like an outlier.

Keith has no desire to hook up with strangers.

No, Keith enjoys the _idea_ of sex more than the actual act itself. His hypothetical ‘cherry’ still has yet to be popped, in most senses of the word. He kissed a couple classmates back in high school, girls and guys alike, but nothing more. He’s never seen it as a big deal. Really, Keith could care less about whether he’s getting laid.

School is his top priority at the moment and has been since his sophomore year of high school. Once he can start designing aircrafts, working on spaceships with his own two hands, it won’t be an issue anymore. But until then, he has to stay focused—keep his eyes on the prize.

So, he doesn’t go out of his way to get into the dating scene. It’s downright _exhausting_ , and Keith is just as happy to go through college with a couple friends and a sometimes-nosy-yet-fantastically-compassionate brother. A boyfriend would just cause unnecessary trouble.

Of course…

Things changed a bit when he took an interest in Lance. But it was just that, okay? An interest.

It was hard to ignore the loudest person in every lecture hall. Sure, he quieted down once class started but, before the professor walked in, he chatted with anyone in the general vicinity willing to listen. In the beginning, Lance’s enthusiasm annoyed the absolute _shit_ out of Keith. The guy talked your ear off, whether you wanted him to or not.

But, as time went on, Keith realized most classmates enjoyed Lance’s crazy rants. They were off-the-wall, no doubt about it, but they were interesting. Keith learned they were more like conspiracy theories than rants, which… well. That may be the real root of the problem; Keith lives for conspiracy theories.

That’s what first captured his attention. Lance never engaged Keith directly, but he had no qualms with eavesdropping on Lance’s conversations with other classmates. And, once he took notice of Lance, he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

The jerk was amazing. He spoke, moved, _breathed_ as if he were born to tell ridiculous stories and persuade people.  He’d be talking to someone and, surely enough, more students would hop into the discussion with their own input. Keith refused to partake—mostly because the thought of embarrassing himself in front of Lance and showing any sort of weakness _sickened_ him—and sat quietly.

Listening.

Lance filled the silence with outrageous stories and theories, ‘fun facts’ and ‘words of wisdom.’ Keith wished, more than anything, he could’ve clamped his hands over his ears and forced himself to tune it out. It was no use, though. It was too late.

Keith liked listening to Lance.

His excitement and passion for what he loved, the timbre and inflection of his voice, every detail sucked Keith in. He’d rather be struck dead than acknowledge it out loud, but he might have developed the slightest bit of a crush on Lance.

Even when tests were passed back and Lance flashed him a look of pure hatred, Keith couldn’t bring himself to dislike the guy. Although Lance never confronted him face-to-face, he had heard about their ‘rivalry’ from Pidge countless times.  And—maybe he’s fucked up in the head—but the very idea of a competition between him and Lance stoked a fire deep in the pit of his gut.

It was absolutely _thrilling_.

Keith found himself working even harder in class. Of course, he also got distracted more often, what with his gaze drifting to a certain seat, usually a row over, whenever there was a lull in the professor’s lecture. He enjoyed hearing Lance speak, enjoyed listening to the way he regarded the universe as something special, something vast and begging to be explored—

Yeah, Keith had a pretty good feeling he had a crush.

But that didn’t give Pidge any reason to set up a _Tinder profile_ for him. It’s a total trainwreck of a profile, in his opinion. The pictures are… okay, granted, the only picture he wishes she hadn’t included is the knife cat meme.

(Not that he’ll admit that to Pidge.)

So, the pictures—he doesn’t have a big issue with them. It’s the bio he really wants her to change.

He’s stared at those same two lines of text on multiple occasions and _still_ can’t come up with anything else to include. How does someone even decide what to put in a Tinder bio? Most people are there for hookups anyway so what does it matter?

Keith hardly uses his own account. Pidge and—horrifyingly enough—Shiro do most of the swiping for him.

Tonight, however, Keith is bored.

He glances over at the small stack of textbooks propped against his leg. _Fuck_. In theory, he could work on an assignment instead of putting things off another day. But he wants to make the most of his free time before he confronts the metric fuckton of schoolwork headed his way.

Keith props his feet up on the table and sinks deeper into the couch. Shiro won’t be home tonight so he has the entire apartment to himself. It isn’t all that uncommon for Shiro to spend the night at Matt’s place or, occasionally, Allura’s. But this early on in the semester, when Keith hardly has any homework—he can’t pass the opportunity up.

For the first couple hours, he watches _Westworld_. When he catches himself drifting off, he disconnects his laptop from the television and reaches for his phone. It’s only 11 o’clock, which is way earlier than he ever goes to bed.

“What the hell do I do now?” Keith asks the empty apartment. Predictably, no one answers him.

Keith groans and tips his head back, fixing his eyes on the ceiling fan overhead. It turns at a leisurely pace, just fast enough to keep him from feeling uncomfortably warm. He tracks the movement of the blades and lets his mind wander.

He could always text Pidge and ask if— _dammit_. She’s over at another friend’s place tonight. Hunk? Keith is almost positive that’s the guy’s name. And his roommate… Keith swears he knows the roommate, too.

Suddenly, it hits him. He _does_ know the roommate.

“Of course that’s who it is,” Keith mumbles. Because Hunk lives with the same guy Keith has been silently creeping on for the last year or so. Yes, of all the people Hunk could live with, it’s Lance. Fucking aerospace engineering Lance. Who just so happens to also be friends with Pidge.

Keith’s plan to text Pidge is shot down in an instant. Although it does give him an idea.

A totally _fucked_ and uncharacteristic idea, but, again, Keith is bored.

Cautiously, Keith unlocks his phone. His eyes flit across the screen, from app to app, until he spots the one he’s looking for. An app, mind you, he’s only opened and used a handful of times since downloading it. Which Pidge had done two months ago.

There’s a small circle in the center of the screen with his bike picture. Red concentric circles start there and spread outwards, while a message displays underneath. “Finding people near you…” it says. Keith almost wishes it wouldn’t.

Eventually, a profile appears. The guy looks vaguely familiar. Shoulder-length blond hair frames his round face, green eyes glinting promisingly. His pictures show him standing in front of easels—his own art, most likely—or surrounded by friends.

Keith is about to swipe the picture to the right when he realizes he doesn’t remember which way to swipe for people he likes.

“Idiot.” He settles for clicking the little green heart at the bottom of the profile.

Tinder has the decency to remind him which direction to swipe, depending on whether he’s interested in the person or not, and Keith sighs a quiet sigh of relief. He was right about the directions after all. _Fantastic_.

He goes through about fifteen more profiles—most of which he swipes left on because, wow, there are a lot of fuckboys at their university—before he comes across another familiar face.

But this familiarity hits Keith like a punch to the gut.

“What?” he cries, voice echoing off the thin walls of their living room. “No, no, no.”

There’s no mistaking the flawless skin and golden brown hair, begging to be ruffled. The wicked smirk and dangerous glimmer in his eyes, drawing attention to himself in every picture Keith scrolls across. In one, he wears a baby blue t-shirt with the word “peachy” screened across the front. Keith is almost positive he has class with the guy standing to Lance’s left—maybe that’s Hunk?—while Pidge stands proudly on the other side with an arm around Lance’s waist. The party pictures are easy to spot, considering the large groups of people, as well as the wide array of nonsensical stuff Lance chooses to wear, like a bra made from two red solo cups and beer box over his head.

Just like the Lance that Keith has come to know from class, the Lance in each picture has a certain charm Keith can’t even begin to explain. Even with the plastic cup bra pulled tight over his white crop top.

 _Just swipe left_ , he silently urges himself. Nothing good would come out of swiping right. Of course, the chances of Lance finding him attractive enough to want to match with—or the chances of him recognizing Keith and trying to match as a joke—are awfully low.

Keith looks off to the side and then back at Lance’s last picture. He’s at a museum, standing alongside an SR-71 Blackbird, sleek and beautiful. He seems absolutely ecstatic to be there and, for some strange and horrifying reason, Keith is reminded of his father, the man who preferred spending his days rocketing through the sky then down on the ground.

His hands move of their own accord and—

The phone nearly falls out of his hands, and Keith is sure his neighbors must _hate_ him for the noise that comes bursting out of his mouth. Fingers quivering, he stares at the screen, dumbstruck.

“ _It’s a match!”_

 _No, it can’t be,_ he wants to tell the stupid app. _That’s impossible You’re wrong_. He can’t even imagine Lance wanting to swipe right on a social pariah like him. Keith Kogane, the hotheaded and cocksure student who’s always questioning his professors and authority figures. The boy who hates loud and crowded places, like parties or clubs, and finds it difficult to make new friends. He’s the antithesis of everything Lance stands for so why… what the _hell_ could’ve possibly influenced Lance to swipe right?

Keith shakes his head and sets the phone on the table, just out of reach.

He’ll watch more _Westworld_ , that’s what he’ll do. After the recent plot twist, he has to watch more and see how events unfold. And avoid thinking of Lance or the fact they matched on Tinder.

Everything is perfectly fine.

But, after one episode, Keith can’t stay away. “Fucking idiot,” he growls at himself and snags his phone off the table. To his horror, he has a message waiting for him. _Lance sent you a new message!_

“The fuck he has,” Keith exclaims, voice cracking unpleasantly somewhere in the middle of his outburst. Tentatively, he unlocks the screen and presses the notification.

**_is your mom an alien? because dat ass is out of this world_ **

Keith doesn’t care how cute this asshole’s smile is; he wants to punch him. But the comment is so fucking… cringey that Keith can’t help but let out a short laugh. And the messages don’t stop there. He only has to wait a few minutes for the next couple.

**_the aliens made me swipe right_ **

**_hey baby wanna take a ride in my flying saucer?_ **

Keith is definitely laughing now. He’s finding it hard to believe Lance thinks any of this garbage will work. How the fuck could someone as smooth as Lance score hookups with lines like _this_? Not that Keith has any idea whether Lance hooks up with people he meets on Tinder. It’s just a hunch, alright? A totally unbiased hunch that has nothing to deal with how obnoxiously adorable he finds Lance’s face and quirky fashion sense. 

He deliberates locking his phone, possibly turning it off for the rest of the night to avoid this nonsense Lance calls “flirting,” when the last message arrives.

**_well you seem cool as fuck_ **

A rush of tingling warmth spreads through Keith’s body. He reads the message again, just to be sure he didn’t imagine it, but it’s real. The social butterfly he’s been dying to talk to for _months_ just told Keith he thought he was cool. Him. _Keith_.

“Me? Cool?” Keith’s thumb hovers over the blank message bar.

He’s never had anyone say that to him before. ‘Freak’ is one he heard often back in elementary school. And, as he grew older and recognized his sexuality, there were a slew of other insults. Compliments were few and far between, unless they were teachers praising his grades and intellect. Which never lasted long. Once he snapped and turned on a classmate for insulting his family, the teachers went back to giving him a wide berth and avoiding him like the plague.

Keith catches his reflection in the television screen. He speaks again, enjoying the taste of the word in his mouth. “Cool.”

His entire body feels warm, pleasantly so, down to the tips of his toes and fingers.

As planned, Keith turns off his phone for the rest of the night. But he vows to at least say something to Lance the next day in class.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Lance_

_-present day-_

Phase 1 doesn’t go as well as planned.

The first time Lance asks Keith out, he’s met with obliviousness. Because of course life would be too _easy_ if Keith understood the situation right off the bat. No, the universe has to spice things up a bit for Lance.

Lance heaves a sigh, back propped up against the wall. His laptop whirrs softly, a warm presence on the top of his thighs but not nearly as warm as Keith’s presence beside him. The bed is actually quite small. It used to be problematic whenever Lance had someone spend the night, but, ever since he and Keith started hanging out, there’s only been one guest in his room, other than the occasional Hunk. 

He’s been drowning in thoughts of their ‘rivalry’ for the better part of the day, and, for the life of him, Lance can’t remember how it even started. “I’m such an idiot,” he mutters, seemingly out of the blue.

“No comment,” Keith deadpans, blinking at the laptop screen.

“You’re not supposed to agree with me on that one, dude. But, uh. Yeah, I kind of feel like one right now.”

“Why?”

“Because this ‘rivalry’”—he motions between the two of them—“has been going on since, like, freshman year, and I’m finally starting to ask myself what happened to kick it off.”

“I mean, wasn’t it an issue over grades or something? Every time we got a test back in class, I noticed you glaring daggers at me.”

Lance wishes, more than anything, he could shoot that excuse down. But alas…

“No, nope. That’s not it. Way too petty. I never would start a legendary ‘rivalry’ over something dumb like _that_.”

“Pidge told me you said ‘I won’t rest until I outscore that stupid hotshot,’” Keith recalls drily. “I would assume I’m the ‘stupid hotshot.’”

 _Did I really call Keith stupid_? He knows he never would’ve meant it seriously, regardless of his competitive nature. “I was just joking!”

“The way Pidge told the story, it didn’t seem that way. You used to shoot me dirty looks in class so I wouldn’t be too surprised.” Keith tries to put a few extra inches of space between them and—Lance panics.

“You’re not stupid at all!”

“You sure about that?” Keith’s voice drips with skepticism.

“Positive! Okay, just— just hear me out.” Lance maintains the space between them, worried he may spook poor Keith. “But you can’t laugh at me or anything.”

“You didn’t laugh when I told you about the alien thing so” —Keith shrugs and continues, albeit grudgingly—”I’m not a dickhead. Go ahead.”

“Alright, well, I was jealous.” _There you go, Lance, just bite the bullet_.

Keith’s nose scrunches up. “Jealous?”

“Yeah, I was jealous. Because you always got good grades and acted like it was no big deal. I _slaved_ over my assignments, but I was lucky to get a B on anything I turned in. Pick a class, any class. You were always way ahead of me.”

Keith pales, like he’s just seen a ghost or run into the Demogorgon from _Stranger Things_. 

“Um. Oh,” Keith eventually stutters out.

Lance quickly snaps his mouth shut. He definitely said too much. Keith would want nothing to do with him after a selfish excuse like that, and Lance wouldn’t blame him.  “I’m sorry, I... It sounds pretty messed up, when I put it like that, huh?“

And then Lance remembers.

The plot. Hunk and Pidge’s brilliant plot to get Keith and Lance together. It may not be the perfect moment to ask, but it’s not the worst either. They’re talking about grades, right? And what does someone have to do to maintain their grades? Study.

Which— _drum roll, please_ —gives Lance an opening. He could totally ask Keith out on a study date. Lance pictures how the whole conversation will go down in his head and barely quells his desire to preen like a proud peacock.

“Here, I have an idea. To make it up to you.” Lance carefully flips his laptop shut. To his credit, Keith makes eye contact instead of staring intensely at a random spot on the wall, like he had been doing. “How about we study together?”

“I don’t study well in groups.”

_Holy mother of-_

“I promise to behave myself,” Lance insists, fluttering his lashes. “I’ll stay on task the whole time.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about…”

“What are you worried about then? Is it the whole ‘memories getting trapped in your mullet’ thing? Because—“

“No, Lance.”

“Is it… because you hate me?”

Lance doesn’t know why he says it, but immediately regrets doing so when Keith’s expression twists into one of pure _fear_. “I don’t hate you.”

“Then what is it?”

“I… I’m worried I won’t be able to focus.”

Pieces of the puzzle slot clumsily together in Lance’s brain; they aren’t quite meshing together, though. 

“I told you, I’ll only ask relevant questions. No sidetracking, no gossip. I swear on my model aircraft collection that I’ll be the best study buddy you could ask for.”

Keith snort-laughs. “I _know_ that.”

“Then why?”

“It’s just that…“

“Hm?”

“I, uh, you see…”

“Keith, dude, seriously—“

“It doesn’t matter if you sit quietly and read the fucking Dictionary to yourself, Lance, I’ll still be distracted by you!”

Lance is totally unprepared for the surge of emotions. The words turn over in his head, faster and faster, and Lance starts to gain a loose grasp on what Keith is saying. _Is he… is he saying he would be too busy watching me_?

There’s no way—absolutely no way. But it’s the most viable explanation. Either the slightest noise disturbs Keith or he’s concerned Lance’s very _existence_ will serve as a distraction.

“Just to be sure I’m not going crazy here,” Lance starts, hesitantly, “are you implying that you’ll be too busy ogling the goods to focus on studying?”

And now Lance is getting shoved. Not enough to send him toppling off the bed but enough that it smarts a little where Keith jabbed him. Curious, he glances up and— Keith, the poor dude, bears an uncanny resemblance to a tomato. Lance can practically see the smoke pouring out of his ears.

“Shut _up_ ,” Keith growls. The laptop tips precariously to one side, and Keith steadies it. “Forget I said anything. Let’s just—get back to the movie? It’s been so long since I last watched it.”

Keith has a point. It’s been _ages_ since Lance watched _The Last Starfighter_. He fell in love with the film the very first time he watched it, sitting in his family room with his younger siblings crowded around him. As a young boy, he’d spent hours searching through his father’s expansive sci-fi collection, watching more movies and televisions shows than he’d care to admit.

When rumors were being spread around the engineering department about the prodigal new student and pilot, Lance couldn’t help but be reminded of Alex Rogan. The kid never expected to be put behind the controls of an actual spaceship, but he was born with the skill necessary to do so. Rewatching the film, Lance can’t help but imagine Keith in a similar scenario.

He’d totally be the kind of guy capable of saving the world.

In reality, as Lance grew older, he developed a bit of a celebrity crush on the young Lance Guest. Bonus points went to the guy for having the same first name as Lance. And, okay, he wasn’t as cute as young Harrison Ford, but he was still pretty high on Lance’s list of ‘Sci-Fi Actors I Would Climb Like A Tree _._

“Yeah… yeah, okay,” Lance concedes. He pulls the laptop over until it sits comfortably between them again, half resting in each of their laps. “You’re lucky I love this movie, or I’d ask your stubborn ass more questions.”

Keith merely sighs and flips the laptop back open, reaching out to press the spacebar. The movie resumes, and Lance is left with his thoughts, torn between gushing over space dogfights or devising new plans to ask the most oblivious person in the fucking _world_ out on a date.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Lance_

“I can’t believe that didn’t work,” Hunk grumbles, adjusting his protractor before sketching another line.

Lance sits in the floor of their living room, an open textbook in his lap. Like a cat, Pidge lies stretched out on the couch. She fits perfectly, whereas Lance and Hunk both have to tuck their legs or prop them on the armrest when in her place. Fingers flying across the keyboard, she pays little to no mind to Hunk and Lance’s discussion.

“Are you kidding? It’s Keith.”

Or not.

Lance groans. He’s recounted the whole story of his failed attempt twice now. Between homework problems, Hunk tries taking the situation apart, piece by piece, in search of Lance’s mistake. Pidge butts in with a comment every now and then.

“I know, but still,” Hunk huffs, “That idea seemed pretty foolproof to me. Kudos to you, by the way, dude.”

“Thanks,” Lance mumbles half-heartedly.

“You have to be straightforward with Keith. Otherwise, he thinks he’s imagining things. Or that you’re trying to trick him.”

“Paranoid, much?” Lance flips the page of his textbook, staring aimlessly at the pictured airfoil. “How would I trick him with a study date? Feed him the wrong answers? That’s fucked up, rivals or not.”

Hunk curses under his breath, and the distinct sound of an eraser, pressed hard against paper, fills the apartment. “You ruined my mechanism sketch, dude.”

Lance shoots him a classic ‘you’ve got to be kidding me’ look. But Hunk merely nods. “Spouting that garbage. You and Keith never really _were_ rivals in the first place, but you’re definitely not now. You’re friends, at least. More than friends, if things go your way…”

“Anyway,” Pidge drawls, “I don’t know why he wouldn’t want to study together. He comes over to our place sometimes to work on stuff. Says it’s quieter than his place when Shiro invites Allura and Matt for dinner.”

So… Lance might not have told Hunk and Pidge the entire story. The last bit of their talk—when Keith revealed he wouldn’t be able to focus with Lance in the room—remains a closely guarded secret. It’s  definitely better that way. If anything, Pidge would tease poor Keith and, well, Keith would punch Lance in the dick for sharing something so personal. 

Lance would deserve it, of course. No question there.

“Not a clue. Maybe he thinks he’s too good to study with his ri—“ Hunk tosses his eraser at Lance. The worn, white block smacks into his cheek, and Lance squeaks. “Hey!”

“Chances are, he’s too shy,” Hunk explains, fixing Lance with a frustrated grimace. “You should know by now that Keith isn’t an academic prude or anything. I’m sure he has his reasons.”

 _Oh, he has his reasons alright_.

“Yeah, he can be pretty, uh, _eccentric_ sometimes. He obviously likes spending time with you, though, so I wouldn’t lose too much sleep over it,” Pidge adds, tone matter-of-fact.

Other than his own brother, Pidge is Keith’s closest friend. They bonded their junior year of high school over conspiracy theories and alien abduction, if Lance remembers correctly. Shiro and Matt were already close friends at the time so the two older brothers were encouraging them to get to know each other better. According to Pidge, she’d been a little reluctant at first. Keith was quiet and sometimes snapped at complete strangers. But, the more time they spent together, the closer they became.

Now that Lance knew Keith better, he could see why their personalities meshed so well. In the past, he’d wracked his brain for reasons why the two got along and always came up with zilch, nada. Not anymore.

As Keith’s closest companion, Pidge knows nearly as much as Shiro. Enough for her to judge whether Keith actually likes Lance or simply tolerates him for the sake of keeping up appearances. _He obviously likes spending time with you, she says._

“So, what should I try next?” Lance prompts. It’s a welcome diversion from his homework. And, well, he really doesn’t know where to proceed from here when it comes to Keith. “Do I try asking him out again?”

“Maybe?”

“Or—or, you could always ask him how he feels about dating,” Hunk suggests. “Not you specifically but, like… dating in general? Maybe that’ll get him to share some valuable information. If he’s interested in dating anyone right now, if he has any crazy exes, if he’s already talking to someone.”

 _Ugh_. The last suggestion leaves Lance feeling queasy. Keith wouldn’t have someone special like that in his life and not tell Lance… right?

“Eh, I guess.” Lance smooths his fingers over the lines of text on the page. “That _could_ work. You really are a genius, buddy.”

Hunk grins, wide and genuine, and pats Lance soundly on the back. “There he is, Sir Lancelot.”

“Defender of the universe!” Lance doesn’t even shut his book before he stands, placing his hands on his hips. If only he had a cape. “The resident sharpshooter, the tailor himself!”

Pidge objects loudly from her place on the couch. “Hunk, no, why do you encourage him?”

The two go back and forth—making judgments on which nicknames should stay and which have to go—but Lance is only half-listening. The man of action has a new plan of action now.

The next step in Phase I will now commence.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Keith_

This is weird.

Actually, ‘weird’ doesn’t feel quite right. It doesn’t encompass the full magnitude of ‘what the fuck is happening’ Keith experiences when he’s around Lance. Emotional vertigo, to be honest.

Let’s just say Keith hasn’t mentioned the real reason he matched with Lance on Tinder— to anyone. No, it wasn’t Pidge who made the decision. Keith’s very own finger swiped Lance’s profile to the right. Completely sober, completely in control of his actions, Keith had been the one to kick himself in the ass and shoot for a match.

And it’s only progressively gotten worse now that Lance _pays attention to him._

“You certainly seem like you’re in a good mood,” Shiro calls out from the kitchen. Past experience tells Keith the remark is supposed to sound offhanded; it doesn’t.

Keith glances up from his textbook, brows raised. “Really?”

“Well, you seem to be smiling more often.” Shiro’s lips pull up into a soft smile of his own. “It’s nice, seeing you happy.”

“I don’t… feel any different.”

“I’m used to you bursting through the door, full of complaints. Usually about that boy in most of your courses. Oh, what’s his name…”

Shiro is so full of shit. Keith groans and pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes falling shut. “Lance. His name is Lance.”

“Yes, that’s the one! But you two seem to be getting along a lot better now. Is that right?”

“You’ve been talking to Matt… haven’t you?”

Keith watches, just to catch the guilty expression on Shiro’s face and catalogue it for later. “Uh, well. We had lunch the other day, and he—he might’ve brought it up.”

“And what’s ‘it’?”

“Your friendship with Lance! He says the two of you started sitting next to each other in his aerospace structures class.” Shiro fiddles with a couple spoons as he pulls them from the dishwasher. “He also mentioned that… it _almost_ seemed like flirting to hi—“

“No, no,” Keith quickly interjects. “Definitely not. Lance and I are friends now. So we talk? Nothing weird about that, right?”

Shiro turns to fully face Keith. He leans back against the kitchen counter. The scar along the bridge of his nose is far more noticeable when he’s like this, gaze fixed intently on Keith, forehead creasing just the slightest bit. Keith has grown over the years, but Shiro still has a few inches on him. Plus, he works out consistently and has the stocky, solid build to show for it. It doesn’t take long for him to switch from ‘sweet older brother’ mode to ‘intimidating father figure’ mode.

“This isn’t the first time we’ve discussed Lance in the past few weeks. You’ve started hanging out with Pidge and ‘her friends’ on the weekends. I know that Lance is one of those friends.” Shiro narrows his eyes. “I also know how fidgety you were the first time you came home, after hanging out with them. Fidgety but also… kind of… giddy?”

“Giddy?” Keith feels his cheeks start to pink. God, he hates when Shiro does this to him. “That’s the word you’re going with?”

“I can’t think of a more appropriate one,” Shiro laughs. “You could barely sit still and kept checking your phone. Especially with the way you were acting the night before… I was suspicious.”

 _Shit_. Keith had really hoped Shiro hadn’t noticed his odd behavior the night he matched with Lance. _The_ night. The cursed night.

“Like I said, we’re just friends,” Keith stresses again. He knows it won’t be the last time he has to tell Shiro. “He’s a huge pain in the ass, but he’s also a nice guy. That’s the only reason I’ve probably seemed happy. Or whatever.”

“Or whatever…” Shiro whispers the words under his breath, but Keith hears him. He turns and strides over to where his briefcase sits, propped against the table. “Anyway, I have to get to work. These homework assignments need graded, and I haven’t had a chance to hand them off to the TA yet.”

“Yeah, alright. Is it just going to be you tonight for dinner? Or are Allura and Matt coming?”

Shiro chuckles faintly, shaking his head. He fixes the lapels of his shirt and adjusts his tie. Keith is eternally grateful he doesn’t have Shiro as a professor. Not only has he seen the sort of homework he hands out, but he’s the kind of person who would love calling on his “genius little brother” for questions during class.

“Just me.” Shiro finishes inspecting his outfit in the mirror and makes for the door. “I’ll probably be busy, though, so I may bring back Chinese takeout. If that’s okay?”

Keith shrugs. “I don’t mind. You’re the one who likes to cook.”

Translation: Keith is not the world’s best chef.

Shiro flashes a fond smile in his direction before stepping out the door. A rush of cool air filters into the room, and Keith shivers. He’s not looking forward to going out in this weather. Plus, the bus will be packed with the usual crowd _plus_ people who normally walk to campus.

Keith can only hope this isn’t foreshadowing for how the day will go

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Lance_

This will work—this _has_ to work.

His second attempt? Yeah, as expected, that went to shit. The two of them had been sitting in the library, eating lunch, when Lance decided to bring it up.

“So,” he’d drawled, amidst chewing. “You wanna go to the arcade tomorrow?”

“Uh, sure. Is Pidge going?”

Lance almost choked on his sandwich. “I don’t… know? Why?”

“You better make sure you invite her. She’s been dying to go,” Keith says, motioning at Lance with a carrot before crunching into it. “I promised I wouldn’t go without her.”

Of course, Lance had thought about begging Pidge to lie and pretend she had plans. But there were too many loopholes, and Lance would feel bad about robbing Pidge of her opportunity to ‘destroy noobs’ and scrape up some decent cash in the process.

So, back to square one.

A couple days later, Lance settled on a different approach. And his third attempt? You guessed it—also a real bummer. He took yet another L.

“Hey, you wanna go to the movies this weekend?” Lance prompted. He and Keith were walking down to the bus stop, swaddled in thick layers of clothing. “Like, maybe Friday?”

Keith let out a noncommittal noise. It was barely audible past the scarf around his neck. “What movie?”

“I’m not sure… anything you’re interested in seeing?”

“Eh, not really.” Keith paused for a moment before continuing. Lance buried his gloved hands deeper in his pockets. “To be honest, I’d rather just watch something at your place.”

Normally, Lance would’ve danced and cheered because, hell yeah, _watching a movie all alone with Keith_. But not this particular weekend. Because Shay was staying over and the awkward atmosphere would kill any chance of Lance making a Move.

The initial three attempts in ‘Operation: Woo Keith’ were unsuccessful. Not much of a surprise there. But this idea? His latest idea? _Fourth time’s the charm_.

Lance scribbled the plan down yesterday, during a break between classes. The chairs in the engineering lounge were crazy comfortable and, curled up in his personal favorite of the bunch, Lance outlined his idea on a scrap piece of paper. Finished, he’d tucked it in his backpack to carry out the following day, when he would have class with Keith.

In a bit of a rush, Lance scrambles to put his lunch together. He spent a decent amount of money on drinks for their last party and needs to pinch pennies for the next few days. Sliding the fridge door open, he reaches for the blueberries.

And, with his fantastic luck, drops the container.

The blueberries roll everywhere—under the fridge, behind the trashcan, managing to even reach the couch. Lance screeches and bends to pick a couple up.

“What are you—oh my God, the fruit killer strikes again!” Hunk freezes just next to the counter. A baggy orange shirt stops just above his knees, hair sticking up at weird angles on top of his head.

“I’m not the fruit killer!”

“Yeah, tell that to the pineapple you sacrificed last week. And the countless other victims in the past!”

Lance scrapes up as many blueberries as he can and dumps them in the trash. He needs to leave soon or he’ll be late for his usual shuttle. And if he’s late to catch the shuttle, he’ll be late to class.

Which means—yep, that’s right. He’ll have to wait to talk to Keith.

Now, that doesn’t completely spoil his brilliant plan. But it deviates from it enough to make Lance anxious. _That’s_ what will throw things off. Because once uncertainty comes into play, Lance freaks out and has been known to sabotage himself.

“The fruit killer has to hurry the fuck up,” Lance says, jamming notebooks and a binder into his bag. He snags the lunch he somehow managed to throw together. “Or he may screw himself over.”

Hunk stops, a few blueberries cradled in his open palms. “This is your last chance to ask him or we’ll have to fix things and reschedule.”

“I know, I know. It’ll all work out, okay?”

Lance is out the door before Hunk can say anything more.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Keith_

_Tap, tap._

Keith glances down at his phone, pressing his thumb lightly over the home key. **8:58 AM**.

_Tap, tap._

Lance is hardly ever late to class. As a matter of fact, he usually beats Keith there.

 _Tap_ , _tap_ , _tap_.

Keith squeezes the pen in his hand. He’s almost positive the guy he used to sit next to is glaring at him. Obviously he doesn’t appreciate Keith tapping his pen on the edge of his desk. _Calm the fuck down_.

This isn’t the kind of class you’d want to be late to either. The professor has a strict attendance policy and doesn’t take kindly to people walking in late. There have been a few students who walked in ten minutes late and were ‘politely’ asked to leave. Not that Keith thinks Lance will be _that_ late.

Just as he’s about to text Lance and beg him to get his ass to class, the man of the hour comes crashing into his usual seat.

“Dude—“

“Yeah, I might’ve sacrificed some blueberries to get here on time.”

Keith blinks at Lance, watching as he quickly digs through his backpack. He tugs the desk over his lap and slaps down his notebook. “At least you spared the pineapple this time,” Keith points out.

“You and your love of pineapple.” Lance clicks his pen and turns to the next blank sheet. He pauses, eyes flitting to Keith. “Did you just make a joke?”

 _Bastard._ He can feel the heat creeping across his cheeks, the bridge of his nose. “Professor Coran is going to walk through that door any second now and bitch at you for talking and interrupting class.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll ignore the fact that super serious Keith Kogane, envy of all mullets, cracked a joke.” Lance throws Keith a wink. He can practically feel his insides turning to mush. “Also, I know I probably don’t have to ask at this point but, uh. You wanna come to our party tonight?”

“Oh, it’s tonight?”

“Yeah, but that’s not a problem, right?” There’s a hint of desperation in Lance’s tone that piques Keith’s curiosity.

“No, no. It’s not. I’m just used to them being on Saturday’s.”

“Yep,” Lance answers with a nod, “Just come over at eight. A little early so you don’t have to deal with the rush of people.”

Keith cocks his head to the side. There’s something strange about Lance’s demeanor. He almost sounds… nervous. Which makes no sense whatsoever. This certainly isn’t the first time he’s invited Keith. More like the fourth time—not that Keith’s keeping track or anything.

“Are you okay?” Keith is momentarily distracted by Lance’s fingers, fiddling with the cover of his notebook. “You seem more… jittery than usual.”

“Totally fine, dude,” Lance answers, “just trying to calm myself down after sprinting here from the bus stop.”

If not for Coran charging through the door like a man on a mission, thick pile of papers crammed under his arm, Keith would’ve interrogated Lance further. But he knew better than to open his mouth once their professor entered the picture. The man would definitely call Keith out. He may spare Lance, but Keith… yeah, maybe he deserved to be called out.

“Alright, class, how is everyone this fine morning?” A collective groan fills the room, and Coran scoffs. “Now, now, it’s lovely outside! This weather reminds me of the time I spent up North. I bet this is what it’s like to live on Europa, hm? “

Coran has a reputation for his bizarre anecdotes, random sound effects, and mild obsession with space and alien life. At the mention of Europa, Keith can already tell today is going to be an entertaining lecture.

“Anyway,” Coran singsongs, claiming his usual place at the front of the room. “Today we’re going to discuss the dihedral effect and how we model…”

Keith sighs and writes the date in the top left-hand corner of the page. For the rest of the lecture, he blocks out his surroundings and focuses on the strings of complicated words coming out of Professor Coran’s mouth. This isn’t the sort of class he can afford to ignore.

He makes it through a solid fifty minutes without dwelling on Lance or his peculiar behavior or the party _later that night—_

Ugh.

Seriously, Keith puts it all out of his mind until he’s free to go home. That’s when he’ll sit and worry over everything. Which, once he slinks through the door and throws himself down onto the couch a couple hours later, is exactly what he does.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Lance_

Lance pouts his lips, watching his reflection mimic the gesture.

“You got this,” he tells himself. He checks his shirt for wrinkles, running his hands over the front of his navy blue flannel. It used to belong to his dad, and Lance has always loved the way it hangs on his frame. He wears the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the long lines of his forearms, and the shirt offers a nice glimpse of his collarbone. A sturdy belt holds his khakis in place, tan fabric hugging his hips and waist in all the right places. He usually reserves these pants for class presentations and interviews, but a date with Keith seems like a worthy occasion.

“Keith used to be your rival, and, sure, he has a mullet. But he’s the coolest, and you’re not going to fuck this up.” Lance jabs his finger into his reflection’s forehead. “I repeat, you will not fuck this up.”

Yes, the mantra is new. He’s never met anyone he legitimately _needed_ a pep talk to approach. Not that needing positive words of encouragement to talk to Keith is a bad thing! It’s more like an ‘I really need to impress this person and convince them I’m worth the effort’ sort of thing.

“I won’t fuck this up.” Lance straightens his spine, standing tall with his hands poised on his hips. “I won’t fuck this up. I won’t, I just won’t. I, Lance McClain, will not fu—”

There’s a hesitant knock at the door, just loud enough that Lance hears it from down the hall. And, oh God, Lance shrieks like a teenage boy who just discovered a spider hidden in the bottom of his boot. He mumbles reassurances under his breath and hastily smooths his hands down the front of his body for probably the millionth time that evening. There’s a slim chance his ministrations only serve to wrinkle his shirt further, but he doesn’t give a flying fuck because _Keith Kogane is waiting at his door_.

“C- I’m coming!” Lance calls out. He almost trips over a stray sock but catches hold of the doorframe before he can actually fall. “Gimme a second!”

Keith doesn’t answer, but Lance easily conjures up what he must look like. Standing there, likely dressed in his usual dark jeans and cotton red shirt, the worn sort that looks soft to the touch. He’s almost definitely wearing his leather jacket, a pair of scuffed combat boots or, maybe, his red Converse sneakers. Quite honestly, Lance has a soft spot for those stupid shoes.

Lance comes to a screeching halt in front of the door, nervously tugging at the hem of his flannel for several tense seconds, before cracking the door open. His eyes flutter shut, and he repeats the mantra once more. _I won’t fuck this up_.

But nothing could’ve prepared him for what awaits him on the other side.

Hair— that’s the first thing Lance notices. Dark strands are swept back into a low ponytail, strays framing Keith’s face, the shortest hairs curling at the nape of his neck. The style draws more attention to features Lance had never allowed himself to contemplate before. A barely visible mole near the tip of his left eyebrow, the grey-purple hue of his irises, a tiny pimple hidden alongside the bridge of his nose. Every detail, every minor flaw, leaves Lance riveted. And steals the words right out of his mouth.

“Hey,” Keith, the cute bastard, has the nerve to say. As if nothing about his appearance is _weird_ or hazardous to Lance’s health. Lance seizes the opportunity to give Keith a onceover and, yeah, of course he’s wearing the Converses. _Shit._

“Uh, oh, hi,” Lance responds, oh so eloquently.

“Hey,” Keith repeats, the barest hint of a smile taking shape on his lips. “Can I… come in?”

“Uh, yeah, duh, of course.”

Keith takes one step into the apartment and falters. “You’re still doing it.”

 _Oh crap._  “Doing what?”

“Acting all weird and jittery. What the hell is your deal?”

Lance is going to burst. If he holds the truth in any longer, he might literally explode and spray his guts all over their nice, clean walls. _I won’t fuck this up, I won’t fuck this up, I-_

“There’s no party tonight!” Lance gasps, like the confession is punched out of him.

Keith stops mid-stride and turns on Lance. He stares blankly, uncomprehending, silent questions hanging between them. The motion is quick, sharp. A few extra flyways join the other stray bangs hanging around Keith’s face, tickling his cheeks. Lance distantly wonders if they actually tickle.

“...What?”

“Surprise!” Lance holds his arms out to the side. He’s genuinely shocked his heart hasn’t climbed up his throat yet. Plastering on his best confident grin, he gestures at the entirety of the apartment. “It’s just the two of us tonight!”

Keith’s lashes flutter wildly, and he spins, surveying the empty living room and kitchen. “Uh, did you— just the two of us? You and… me?”

 _I won’t fuck this up_.

“Keithy, boy, what would you do if I told you this was a date?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come cry with me over on tumblr or twitter @tobiologist. i really love talking to readers!! and please let me know if you make anything for this story :)


	3. step 3: take him on a date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lance tries his best and Keith learns a lot about his soon-to-be boyfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, hello! sorry about the long break. you can thank my program for that… i've been _dying_ to write for weeks
> 
> but, anyway, here we go!! this chapter is full of awkwardness, fluff, and terrible cliches. hence a couple of the new tags. it’s the height of self-indulgence, honestly. please go listen to “let’s hear it for the boy” by deniece williams while reading the last part of this!! as a matter of fact, you may just want to check out this whole mix i made since i’ve been referring to a lot of the songs throughout this story. 
> 
> as usual, big thank you to all of my readers for being understanding and sticking around!! every kudo and comment is greatly appreciated, and all encouragement keeps me going! so without further ado, enjoy!
> 
> update: i forgot to mention that the hunkana mutata name was [kat's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jaseykat/pseuds/jaseykat) idea!!! thank you, as always, for your brilliance. yall should check out her work while you're at it

_Lance_

In the twenty-one years Lance has been alive on this beautiful Earth, he hasn’t had a near death experience.

Sure, he got into trouble back in high school—usually dragging poor Hunk along for the ride, dooming them both to detention—but never anything that would’ve gotten him killed. Lance didn’t have a death wish, thank you very much.

But Lance is certain, wavering in the entryway to his apartment, he dies for a few seconds.

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, and Keith… maybe Keith dies a little, too. He has yet to respond and stays motionless, blue-violet eyes wide and lips parted. Could corpses change their facial expression? Lance supposed it was possible. He isn’t an expert on the matter, but picturing Keith as a zombie, a character straight out of _The Walking Dead_ , sends a nervous shiver down his spine.

“Uh,” is Keith’s first and totally diligent response.

Lance flounders. _How am I supposed to work with that?_

“Yep,” he squeaks.

 _Nailed it_.

But Keith carries on. “Date...” He speaks slowly, as if getting a feeling for that one single syllable.

“Yeah, like the fruit.”

“I thought you killed fruit?”

That’s it. Lance is almost definitely having a near death experience right now. If it were anyone else, Lance would think Keith were messing with him. Except for the ever present fact this is _Keith_ he’s dealing with. It’s the nerves talking— it has to be. They’re both nervous, and Keith is probably a little disgusted because _ew, no, Lance is only a friend_.

“I made! There’s some—pineapple on the pizza,” Lance eventually says and hates the slight break in his voice. What the fuck is he _doing_? Did he suddenly forget the entire English language?

Keith shakes his head, a few bangs working their way free of his hairband, and turns toward the kitchen. “You made pineapple pizza for a—“

 _Date, Keith, that’s the word you’re looking for_.

“Listen, it’s Hunk’s recipe so your taste buds are about to be taken on an all-expense-paid trip to Heaven. Or, you know, paradise if you don’t believe in Heaven or whatever. Some people don’t. I knew this guy one time who—“

“Lance.”

“—didn’t, but I don’t really care, like you can believe whatever you want. I was raised in a Catholic family, but I’m not sure if I—“

“Slow. Down,” Keith intones. There’s a hard yank on Lance’s arm that nearly sends him toppling right into Keith’s chest. “You’re the one who sprung this on me. If anything, I should be freaking out.”

“Me? Freaking out?” Lance snorts but let's Keith drag him to the living room. He made sure to set the table earlier in preparation for any unanticipated snags in his plan. The red Fiestaware plates were gifts from Hunk’s parents that the two kept reserved for ‘special occasions.’ Lance even made sure to set out silverware, regardless of whether they needed to use it.

“Flowers,” Keith breathes, coming to a grinding halt a few feet away from the table. “Those are flowers.”

“Tulips.” Lance winces as Keith’s grip on his forearm tightens.

“You’re not…. Joking. This isn’t a joke.”

Okay, so, not exactly the reaction Lance had expected—or hoped for. Pidge swore up and down that Lance had a chance, but now, with Keith shuffling awkwardly around the table without taking a seat, Lance isn’t so sure. A small selfish part of him, the part most terrified by the prospect of rejection, wants to take back everything he’s said since Keith came through the door.

“Please, just—can you sit down? The pacing is making me anxious,” Lance pleads. “Also, would you mind letting go of my arm? If you squeeze any harder, you might actually break something.”

Keith jerks his hand away. Embarrassment colors his cheeks, and Keith stutters out something unintelligible before pulling out a chair and sitting. He sets his gloved hands on either side of his plate and leers at the vase of tulips situated in the center of the table.

“Right, I’m gonna go grab the—time for pizza!” Lance practically sprints to the kitchen, thankful for the space the bar puts between them.

Lance sidles up to the oven. The culinary masterpiece rests there, completely oblivious to the emotional turmoil its chef is currently suffering through. Lance has to hand it to Hunk, he knows how to cook. Half the pizza is covered in tiny pineapple and ham chunks, as well as sliced green peppers. Meanwhile, the other half—Lance’s half—has pieces of chicken and banana peppers because, “Pineapple doesn’t belong anywhere near my pizza.”

(Hunk, of course, attributed Lance’s bitterness toward pineapple pizza on his rocky relationship with all fruit.)

Shredded mozzarella cheese is sprinkled over the entirety of the pizza. The sauce is a mixture of marinara and buffalo sauce Hunk managed to hook Lance on before they even lived together. Thankfully, it went well with both sets of toppings so Lance didn’t have to make further adjustments to the recipe.

Thanks to Hunk’s help, it looked delicious. And somehow befitting of a ‘first date’ for Keith and Lance.

Lance slams both hands down on the counter on either side of the oven and leans over, using it for support. His heart beats a wild staccato inside his chest. Lance fixes his attention on the pizza and tries to imagine how happy Keith will be when he tries a bite.

 _Remember, you’re not going to fuck this up,_ Lance reminds himself. He remains in that position, though, for a minute or two, making sure to regain his composure before presenting his beautiful dinner to Keith.

Once his heart calms down enough to let him function like a normal human being, Lance scoops up the pizza and walks into the living room. Keith is still in a heated staring contest with the centerpiece. He could have easily seen Lance when he worked in the kitchen, but chances are he hadn’t budged an inch since claiming his spot. Which, really, is for the best.

“I present to you,” Lance announces, flourishing the pizza in an arc before setting it in the available space next to the vase. “A culinary tour de force, a culmination of genius, a work of art.” To his relief, he avoids any mishaps like, say, tipping over a vase of cold water and fresh flowers into Keith’s lap.

Keith manages to his divert his gaze from the brilliant red petals of the tulips. His eyes fall on the plate and widen. Lance can’t help but smirk. He’ll count it as his first little victory for the night, especially considering it may be his only victory.

Grinning, Lance pulls a pizza cutter from behind his back. He makes a grand show of slicing their meal into pieces. At one point, he lets his eyes wander to Keith and instantly regrets it. The asshole is smiling—and he’s definitely not looking at the pizza.

_Play it cool, Lance, play it cool._

Once the pizza is cleanly cut into eight slices, Lance dishes out a piece to each of them. Unfortunately, he’s out of distractions. Now that dinner has been served, now that they’re _both_ seated at the table, Lance can’t run. Oh, and he really wishes he could. There’s no doubt about that.

_Time to face the music._

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Keith_

The reality of his situation has yet to sink in.

Maybe… maybe he’s finally losing his mind? Or maybe this is a dream? Keith is half-expecting Pidge to hop out from underneath the table, throw confetti at him, and then scream “wake up!” at the top of her lungs. It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened to him before.

But, the more time passes without Pidge or Shiro materializing out of thin air, the more Keith begins to think everything is _real_.

Keith Kogane has actually been tricked into going on a date with Lance McClain.

He keeps getting stuck on the whole ‘Lance wanting to date him’ aspect of the situation. Which, okay, makes little to no sense because Lance is _Lance_ and Keith is _Keith_. But there’s a homemade pizza in front of him and a vase of flowers and—holy fuck, this is genuinely supposed to be a date.

And clearly not spur-of-the-moment either.

“The pizza—“ Keith’s words catch in his throat, and Lance beams expectantly, knees drumming a nervous beat against the underside of the table. “The pizza looks good.”

“Oh, uh, thanks.” Lance grins. His eyes flit to Keith’s plate. “You should take a bite. You know, before the chef does. To make sure he didn’t fuck up the recipe.”

Keith doesn’t think he’s ever seen Lance act quite this anxious. He’s seen pre-test Lance who can hardly sit in one place for five minutes at a time without looking like he’s about to collapse. He’s seen Lance during a suspenseful movie, gnawing on his lip, only to apply numerous layers of lip balm shortly after. He’s even seen bashful Lance once or twice, when a professor pulled Lance to the side to congratulate him on his class performance.

This Lance, however, is different.

 _You’re the one who planned this_ , Keith wants to say, but knows it would come out sounding nastier than intended. Shiro constantly nags him about tact and thinking before he speaks. The number one way to fuck up a first date? Embarrass the guy who made the arrangements.

He takes a small bite of his pizza and a pleased noise slips out, unbidden. It tastes… it tastes pretty damn good. The sweetness of the pineapple and spiciness of the buffalo sauce create a satisfying contrast that leaves Keith feeling warm inside. A hopeful glint flashes in Lance’s eyes as he watches Keith chew.

“Good?”

“Very,” Keith admits, after he swallows. “Hunk’s recipe?”

“Yeah, but I…” Lance scratches the back of his neck, averting his gaze. “I’m the one who made it.”

 _Obviously_. Keith bites his tongue. “Thanks.”

“I’ve never tried to make it before so I was really worried it would turn out gross.”

Keith hates having to do this, but he _needs_ to know. “Hey, uh. Lance?”

“Yeah?” Pizza slice inches from his mouth, Lance jolts. A banana pepper falls, and he groans. “It’s not even a fruit…”

“Is this—are we really? On a date right now?”

God, it sounds stupid when Keith puts it like that. And he feels even worse when Lance doesn’t answer right away. He gawks, blinking slowly, as if he’s the one who doesn’t understand what’s going on. Before offering a response, Lance turns his attention to the unused napkin next to his plate.

“Would it upset you if I said that it was?” Lance wonders, fingers smoothing along the edge of his plate.

“I don’t know.” _Lies, Keith, lies_. “I haven’t thought about it.” _More lies._

“Oh, okay. I guess that’s fair.”

“Yeah…”

“Well,” Lance starts, huffing out a strained laugh that tugs at Keith’s chest in the worst of ways. “It doesn’t have to be a date if you don’t want it to be. Two dudes can have dinner like this in a totally platonic manner. As, um. As just friends.”

This has to be what it feels like to kick a puppy. Keith has never—and would never, what the _fuck_ kind of monster would?—done so before but right now, he sure as hell feels like he has. All nervous ticks have ceased, and Lance appears to pale, lips drawing into a thin line. Lance’s stammered reassurances are almost drowned out by weak excuses for laughter.

In the beginning, when Keith first met Lance, this act might have fooled him. But not anymore.

At this point, the sight is enough to make Keith queasy. Even more so, knowing there are many nights he’s lied awake, fantasizing about what it’d be like to date Lance. To do stupid shit like holding hands and cuddling on the couch while watching old sci-fi movies and going on drives together and everything cringingly terrible Keith has always detested about couples.

“No!” Keith cries.

He and Lance both jump. Keith hadn’t meant for the outburst and can already feel his cheeks reddening.

“No?” Lance squeaks “’No’ what?”

“No to the… fuck.”

“Oh my God, Keith, I wasn’t offering _that_ —“

“Why do I even—I’m trying to put together an answer over here! Just give me a second to… to organize my thoughts,” Keith begs. His cheeks are likely a vibrant shade of scarlet at the mention of _sex with Lance,_ of all fucking things _._ “This is a lot to process at once.”

Color steadily returns to Lance’s features, and he sinks back into his chair, looking far more content with himself. He goes from ‘kicked puppy’ to something oddly reminiscent of a lazy cat lounging it in its favorite spot on the sofa.

“I gotcha, buddy,” Lance drawls, “I didn’t want to spring this on you but…”

“Yeah, actually, why didn’t you just ask me out like a normal person?”

“Well, I tried. A few times.”

“Wait. What?” Keith wants to sink into the floor. “How did—When?”

“The first time, we were at my place watching _The Last Starfighter,_ and I tried to invite you over for a study date. Which you didn’t want because—“

“Yeah, I know,” Keith interjects quickly. The memory of him, admitting he couldn’t be in the same room as Lance and focus on schoolwork, remains fresh in his mind. Too fresh. “What about the other times?”

“Okay, well, the second time,” Lance hums, “we were at lunch, and I asked if you wanted to go to the arcade. You said Pidge wanted to go and that you didn’t want to leave her out. Which I totally understood because I know how serious Pidge is about the money she makes there.”

“Shit.” Keith wants to curl up in a ball and die. “Please don’t tell me you tried again?”

“Oh, but I did. The last time, we were walking down to the bus stop, and I wondered if there were any movies you wanted to catch in theaters—“

“I hate everything.“

“—and you said you would rather watch something back at my place, like we usually do. But Hunk was having Shay over for the weekend so I didn’t want things to be weird. I would rather us be alone in the apartment for an actual date.”

“I’m so sorry,” Keith blurts. “I had no idea.”

“That’s okay. I kinda figured as much.” Lance takes a huge bite of his pizza. As he munches, his face scrunches and his gaze finally falls on Keith. “That’s why I resorted to this. I talked to Hunk and Pidge, and they seemed to think it wasn’t the worst idea in the world.”

“It isn’t, I swear. I just—“ Keith swallows down the lump in his throat and wills himself to ask what’s really on his mind. “When you saw me on Tinder. Why… why did you swipe right?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Lance_

There are some questions that seriously are the _worst_ to try and answer.

Some, as he’s learned from engineering, are better described using equations and diagrams, potentially an experiment. Some require an explanation spanning over several hours. Some can’t be properly expressed in words. And some offer an answer people won’t like.

The answer to Keith’s question feels like it qualifies as all of the above.

Lance catches himself before he drops his slice of pizza. Of all the fucking things Keith could’ve possibly asked, it had to be _that_.

“I, uh. This water went right through me, weird,” Lance blabs. By some stroke of luck, he manages to push his chair out and bolt to the other room without causing any major disasters. No spilled drinks or dropped food or, God forbid, a pulled tablecloth. “Be right back.”

The hallway to his room feels longer than usual. Lance throws open his door and rushes to the bathroom, attempting to shut himself in without causing too much of a racket. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Lance chants and perches on the toilet. The lid is cool to the touch, even through his jeans.

There’s only one thing to do in this kind of situation: text Hunk.

Lance digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone. Hunk’s name sits near the top of his inbox, sandwiched between Pidge and his mom. Lance has him saved under “Hunkuna Matata” after they watched _Lion King_ together and promptly decided Timon and Pumba were obviously modeled after them.

**_Lance:_ ** _HOUSTON WE HAVE A PROBLEM_

 **_Hunkana Matata_ ** _: PLEASE TELL ME THIS DOESN’T HAVE TO DO WITH THE DATE_

_BECAUSE_

_I S2G_

**_Lance_ ** _: heh well ya see_

_maybe?_

**_Hunkana Matata_ ** _: I’m afraid to ask but what happened?_

 **_Lance_ ** _: he asked why I swiped right on him. he asked WHY hunk_

 **_Hunkana Matata_ ** _: Okay?? So just tell him you saw him in class and thought he was cute_

 **_Lance_ ** _: AKSJFKSJFKS_

_but that’s embarrassing af_

**_Hunkana Matata_ ** _: It’s that or you tell him the truth_

 **_Lance_ ** _: okay but define The Truth…_

 **_Hunkana Matata_ ** _: Well. You swiped right because you thought it would be crazy if the two of you matched but also thought Keith was pretty attractive_

 **_Lance:_ ** _N O_

_especially not that first part uh_

**_Hunkana Matata_ ** _: You have to tell him something. Just go do it!! I’m sure he won’t care if he feels the same way about you_

 

Lance shifts in place. The thought draws goosebumps on his skin. Keith, actually liking him back. _Lance_. It’s the most absurd concept in the world because the more Lance talks to Keith, the more he realizes Keith deserves better than a guy like him. A guy who spent his freshman year dating a girl who almost stole his car right from under his nose and moved on to having a handful of random strangers stay over after parties. Sure, he only legitimately slept with one of those strangers but still…

Suddenly, his phone buzzes, as if Hunk just read his mind.

**_Hunkana Matata_ ** _: And no, none of that “Keith deserves better than me” crap_

‘Hunk Can Read Minds Theory’ confirmed.

 

 **_Lance_ ** _: hunk…. dude……_

 **_Hunkana Matata_ ** _: GET BACK OUT THERE_

_POOR KEITH IS PROBABLY HAVING HEART PALPITATIONS_

**_Lance:_ ** _FINE but if this goes south_

_remember that I told you so_

Lance locks his phone and stuffs it back in his pocket. His eyes slide shut, vision going dark. He works to steady his breathing and thinks about Keith, cute as fuck and sitting alone at their dinner table, wondering why Lance was taking so long to take a piss. _Dammit_.

Summoning up his last bit of courage, Lance stands and makes his way down the hall, back to the table. As he approaches, he notices Keith also has his phone out. The second he spots Lance coming, though, he stows it away, leering at the table guiltily. _Probably Pidge,_ his mind helpfully supplies.

Unless it’s Shiro, in which case… Lance’s fear increases tenfold. That man could do some damage if he really wanted. Lance would make for a nice human punching bag.

“So,” Lance drawls, reclaiming his seat. “I have an answer.”

“You found the answer in the bathroom?”

Forced laughter spills over Lance’s lips as he drops into his seat. The wooden surface is less comfortable than he remembers.

“No, no. It wasn’t. I just needed some… advice.”

Across the table, Keith fidgets, like a skittish animal seconds away from bolting to safety. He offers Lance the weary beginnings of a smile. His fingers hover over the pizza, as if he’s uncertain whether he should take another bite.

“You can tell me the truth, Lance,” Keith deadpans. The straightforwardness sends a chill down Lance’s spine. “There’s no need to sugarcoat things for me.”

“I don’t understand...”

“If you swiped right on a dare or because you thought it’d be funny, I get that. It isn’t the first time I’ve had someone do that.” There’s a resignation in his voice that feels heavy in the relative silence of the room. “Just be honest.”

“I didn’t! I swear I didn’t. Okay?”

“But—”

“I wouldn’t do that to you!”

“Lance…”

“You want the truth? Alright, here it is.” Lance’s mouth is running away from him, and, _fuck_ , does he hate word vomit. “I kept seeing you in class and in pictures with Pidge and always thought you were kinda attractive. And then I was on Tinder, minding my own business, and there you were. Browsing the local dudes, just like I was. Which was a pleasant surprise because I always got this ‘bad boy who all the ladies want’ vibe from you.

“And… I don’t know what hit me, but I was a little tipsy, you seemed even cuter than I recalled, and I just…” Lance shrugs, nearing the end of his burst of confidence. “Thought why the hell not?”

Keith hadn’t said a single word during Lance’s explanation. As a matter of fact, Lance isn’t sure he’s still breathing. His eyes appear glazed over, mouth agape, and forehead creased. Confusion etched into every facet of his expression, Keith is practically a statue.

Which does absolutely _nothing_ for Lance’s dwindling self-confidence.

Lance can feel his heart sinking. The butterflies in his stomach beat their wings in a desperate effort to stay alive, but Lance knows they won’t last much longer. He wipes his sweaty palms on his pants and licks his lips, cautiously eying Keith.

“So what about you, huh?” Lance prompts. He winces at the audible strain in his voice. “Why did you swipe right on someone like me?”

Keith’s mouth opens and closes, uselessly, for a few seconds before actual words come tumbling out. “Someone like you?”

“Yeah, you know. The dude who parties on the weekends and has, in the past, messed around with countless strangers? Usually at said parties?” Lance scoffs. “And the dude who works at a fast food place during the week because his scholarships aren’t enough to support his sorry ass.”

“There’s nothing wrong with working to pay off school,” Keith settles on. He speaks so quietly, almost shyly, which is uncharacteristic enough to set Lance’s nerves on edge. Well, even _more_ on edge. “If I didn’t have my scholarships, I’d be doing the same.”

“Well, yeah. That’s because you’re a genius.”

“I’m definitely not a genius. Pidge, sure. But not me.”

“Will you at least admit you’re smart? Smarter than me?”

Keith bristles. “I thought you were always trying to prove you were the smarter of the two of us?”

Embarrassment floods Lance, and he leans forward, gesturing at Keith. “You’re avoiding the question!”

“You’re the one who—“

“Why me? Why would you pick a loser like me?” Lance pauses, worrying at his lip, before giving Keith a taste of his own medicine. “Just be honest.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Keith_

Keith is going to be sick.

He hoped this would never come up in conversation. For the past couple weeks, he busted his ass avoiding the topics of Tinder and dating. And yet here he is, confronted with the hideous beast itself, at the worst possible moment.

Why _did_ he pick Lance?

Why pick the boy who captured and held his attention? Why pick the boy with the blinding smile and vibrant eyes? Why pick the boy who excelled at everything Keith struggled with, like the cliché ‘other half of his whole’? Why pick the boy who piqued Keith’s interest just by being himself? Just by existing in the same space as Keith?

“Why did I swipe right on you?” Keith repeats, making sure he didn’t mishear Lance.

“Yeah, you massive nerd. I don’t exactly seem like the kind of person you would go for.” Lance flourishes his hand, and Keith catches a glimpse of faintly trembling fingers. “And what would a proper first date be without this lovely discussion?”

“So you usually talk about this with your dates?”

Lance looks mildly terrified. “I don’t… I’ve only ever dated two people before.”

_What?_

“There was a girl in high school. Super pretty and popular. We dated for a couple months, but she ended up leaving me for a football player. Probably because he was hotter and more popular than me. Oh, and because a lot of the other people on the swim team didn’t like her. Whenever she would meet me after swim practice, they groaned—just loud enough so that she could hear it.” Lance chuckles as he reminisces. “She was something else.

“And then there was Nyma. I met her in college my freshman year, when I was still going through a bit of a, well. A ‘phase,’ as Hunk likes to call it. We dated for a few months, too, until she tried to… steal my car.”

“She—wait, she tried to steal your car?”

“Eh, it was no big deal. She was going through a rough patch, financially, and was worried they’d kick her out of school,” Lance explains. “But it’s honestly fine now. She even comes to some of our parties.”

Keith squints. “Which one is she?”

“Tall, blonde, looks like she could be a supermodel? She likes to wear her hair in pigtails and totally carries them off?”

The description sounds vaguely familiar to Keith. He swears he remembers seeing a girl like that, tucked in the middle of five people wedged on the couch. If Keith is thinking of the right person, she certainly is pretty. A spark of jealousy jolts through his body.

“Yeah, I think I saw her,” Keith says, “Never would’ve pegged her for a thief.”

“Listen, like I said, it’s a long story. She’s not a bad person. She and Rolo have been through some tough shit, and—“ Lance jolts to a stop. His jaw drops, eyes bugging out of his skull. He reminds Keith of a cartoon character. “You changed the subject again!”

“Uh, no I didn’t. You’re the one who brought up your exes.”

“Okay, but that’s after _you_ asked me about my dating history!”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Keith snorts.

Lance groans and slumps back in his seat. “This is crazy. We keep talking in circles.”

 _We do that a lot_ , Keith muses. _And I’m fucked up because I kind of enjoy it_.

“Lance, I…” Keith drops his head. He zeroes in on an abnormally large pineapple chunk nestled along the crust of his pizza slice. This has gone on for long enough; Lance gave _him_ an answer, after all. “I swiped right on your profile because I—“

_Dun, dun, dun, dada dada dun._

Of fucking _course_ that’s Keith’s phone. ‘The Imperial March’ blares through the apartment like some kind of bad omen. Lance glances between Keith’s wide-eyed stare and his lap, where his phone continues to ring.

“Pidge,” Keith blurts and angrily digs around in his pocket. He clambers to his feet and darts out of the room, ducking into the hallway. Lance watches silently, a smug little grin tugging at his lips. There’s a hint of something there, too, that Keith tries to ignore, fringing on disappointment.

Keith presses the phone to his ear and snarls into the receiver. “This better be good, Pidge.”

“Depends on your definition of ‘good,’ I guess,” she sighs back. “I just wanted to check in on you since you hadn’t answered any of my texts. And since Lance already had his freak out, I figured it was about time for yours.”

“What?” Keith yelps, trying to process this new information. “Lance was freaking out?”

“Duh, have you met the guy? Lance isn’t the smooth operator he makes himself out to be. Hunk told me he managed to calm him down, though.”

Suddenly, Lance’s bathroom epiphany makes a lot of sense. “Did you know he was going to spring this—“ the word gets lodged in his throat “—date on me?”

“Listen, dude, I’m just an innocent bystander in all of this.” Pidge heaves an even bigger sigh. “If you want… Hunk and I are, like, a block away. At the library. We can drop in—“

“ _Please_ , oh my God.” Part of him doesn’t want a single person to interrupt this peculiar… whatever it is going on between him and Lance. But another part, a much larger part, can’t imagine being alone with Lance in such an intimate setting for any longer.

“Alright, fine, fine. We’ll be there in a couple minutes. But you owe me big time. Lance is totally gonna kill us for this.”

Before Keith can ask what the fuck _that’s_ supposed to mean, Pidge hangs up. The silence on the other end of the line feels overbearing, stifling. This somehow feels like the wrong decision. He should have told Pidge he’s fine and can handle this thing with Lance all on his own.

It would’ve been a lie but…

Keith slaps his cheeks, trying to force every ounce of fear out of his body. He can do this. Keith is an adult—sort of?—and, dammit, he can deal with one measly date. He’ll handle the ‘colossal crush’ issue later. Once it stops feeling like the apartment is going to eat him alive.

Stowing his phone away, Keith slinks back into the room. Lance sits in the same spot and, as Keith enters, he smiles. His cheeks are filled with what Keith can only imagine is pizza. He pushes back his chair and moves toward Keith’s seat, pulling it out for him. Tomato sauce covers the area around his mouth in little smears, shifting as the lower half of his face shapes into an apprehensive grin.

“Who was that?“

“Uh—”

And, just like that, the glass of water perched at the edge of the table tumbles over. Right into Keith’s lap.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Lance cries, jumping into action. His older sibling instincts kick in and, in seconds, he’s there with every napkin he can find. “I’m so, so sorry. Of course this would happen.”

Keith lifts his arms and gapes as Lance proceeds to dab at the mess on his lap. “It’s fine.”

“No, it isn’t. Ugh, why am I like this?”

“Lance—”

“Hold on, I’ll grab you some pants,” Lance wheezes. “And… oh yeah, you’ll probably need a shirt, too.”

Keith has yet to say a single word. He watches in dumbfounded silence as Lance runs to his room. “Good job. This is how you get all the ladies and gents,” Lance mutters as he comes bustling back, clutching a pair of grey sweats and red t-shirt against his chest.

“Uh, thanks,” Keith manages.

“Yeah, dude, no problem. I’m the klutz who had to go and spill water in your lap on our first fucking _date_ , wow, Lance.” He slaps his hands to his cheeks and tugs down, looking utterly crestfallen. “I really am sorry. The glass was there but I didn’t see it and then I guess I just—”

A loud knock sounds from the direction of the doorway and both boys freeze. Lance flashes Keith a horrified glance before straightening up. “I’ll, uh. Get that? And you can go change?”

Keith jerks his head in a quick nod. His legs refuse to work, sneakers rooted to the ground, and he can only watch as Lance makes his way to the door. _Pidge, the dirty little liar_. She was almost definitely headed to Lance’s apartment when they were on the phone earlier; she planned to bail Keith out from the very beginning.

And yet… Keith feels like a ‘thank you’ is in order.

“Pidge?” Lance screeches, confirming Keith’s suspicions. The subsequent sound of her laughter is enough to force him into action. Keith quickly heads to the nearest private space— Lance’s bedroom because life is cruel— and sheds his damp clothes. As expected, Lance’s sweatpants scuff the ground rather than the top of his shoes. The shirt fits, for the most part, although it hangs a bit looser on his frame than Lance’s.

Keith checks his reflection in the mirror. It could look worse. And, on the bright side, wearing Lance’s clothes is a lot like being embraced by the boy himself. Every inch of Keith’s skin buzzes with contentment. Coconut and aftershave, a hint of suntan lotion, every scent combining into something distinctly Lance.

If this is the consequence of a spilled drink, Keith is tempted to leave an entire pitcher of water precariously close to the edge of the table next time.

... _Next time_.

Keith whines and rests his forehead on the spotless surface of Lance’s full-length mirror. Lips smushed against the surface, he grumbles, “What the hell is wrong with me?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Lance_

“Well, this isn’t exactly how I expected things to go,” Lance murmurs.

He sinks deeper into the plastic seat and lifts his arms above his head, cradling the back of his skull in the wide splay of his palms. Lights dance across his body in quick splashes of purples, pinks, and oranges. They do nothing to brighten his mood, though, as he surveys the mostly empty bowling alley.

 _I went overboard_ , Lance decides with a huff. _We had something good going, and I had to go and fuck it up with my stupid_ emotions.

“Aw, c’mon, dude,” Hunk says, slumping into the seat next to Lance. “Lighten up! Pidge and I are just trying to help you out.”

“Did you do it because of my—“

“Meltdown?”

“Okay, ‘meltdown’ is a little excessive. You’re blowing things _way_ out of proportion, buddy. I was just… concerned. And didn’t know how to answer a difficult question. Which, by the way, I was totally unprepared for. Who knew Keith would ask about that? You? Me? _Pidge_?” Lance waggles his finger at Hunk. “No, no, and no. So, I mean, you would’ve reacted the same way I did.”

“Uh huh…” Hunk snorts and gestures at Keith. “Did you ask him the same thing?”

Keith stands at the ready, bowling ball in hand, staring down the pins at the end of the lane as if they’ve become his mortal nemesis. The tiny fringe of dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, as well as Lance’s somewhat oversized clothing, serve as unwelcome distractions; Lance physically forces his attention elsewhere.

“Yeah…”

“And?”

“And nothing,” Lance sighs. “He never got the chance to finish because some asshole called him.”

Keith guffaws loudly, offering the scoreboard a disgusted grimace. Pidge sidles up next to him and mutters something Lance can’t quite make out from where he’s sitting. Whatever it is, Keith growls her name and playfully shoves her toward the ball rack. Pink colors his cheeks, and a powerful swell of affection engulfs Lance. _What a dork_.

“You’ll get another chance,” Hunk assures him. “But I think this is probably for the best. From what Pidge told me, it’s best to take things slow, when it comes to Keith.”

Lance leans forward, mindlessly watching Pidge. God, he hates when Hunk is right. Which is pretty much all the time because it’s _Hunk_ , for fuck’s sake.

“I know, I know.”

“He’ll open up to you eventually.” Hunk lightly elbows Lance in the side. “And think of it this way! He must like you or he would’ve walked right back out the door when you told him it was a date.”

“You’re not wrong, I guess,” Lance mumbles.

“Did he enjoy the pizza?”

“I think so.”

“And did he seem like he was having a fun time? You know, being there with just you?”

A brief image presents itself to Lance. Of Keith, as Lance sliced the pizza, observing his every move with the softest of smiles gracing his lips. Keith _seemed_ to enjoy Lance’s company. Maybe it really was just too much for him to deal with all at once. Maybe…

Well, Lance will keep that hopeful observation to himself for now.

“He felt bad about all the times he didn’t pick up on me asking him out,” Lance answers instead. He turns to Hunk, met with the furrowed brow and slack jaw he expected. But before Hunk can push for more information, Pidge calls for Lance to take his turn.

Lance throws a quick wink Hunk’s way and steps up to grab his ball. The glimmering black surface takes on a more purple hue in this lighting. Lance slips his fingers into their respective holes and assumes his usual starting position. He nearly falters as he takes his approach.

The strength of Keith’s gaze is staggering. Lance feels like he’s caught in the pull of a tractor beam from one of his beloved science fiction series. A burst of excitement hits Lance, and he lowers his arm, using the fluttery, charged feeling to his advantage. His body coils and then releases, ball rolling and rolling down the lane, toward the pins. It connects with a solid and familiar myriad of hollow _clunks_.

“Strike!” the scoreboard declares, and Lance releases a victorious hoot.

Before he turns to gloat, a thought strikes him. _I want Keith to be proud of me._

And what the _fuck_ is that? Lance shoves that nonsense deep into the recesses of his mind and swivels on his heel. To his delight, the three of his friends sit squished together. Lance bends at the knees, smirks devilishly, and fires a finger gun gesture their way.

He practically melts when Keith—stupid, _stupid_ Keith—claps. A couple other groups in the alley stop what they’re doing and look toward their lane. It isn’t long before they laugh good-naturedly and return to playing. Meanwhile, Pidge and Hunk stare at Keith like he’s lost his fucking mind. Which Lance, heart stuttering in his chest, is also starting to suspect.

When neither Pidge nor Hunk joins in, Keith gradually stops, hands stilling. His entire body deflates, and Lance swears he deflates along with him. Only the cheery pop music playing from the speakers overhead can be heard. “Oh,” Keith breathes.

“Dude…” Lance starts, edging closer to Keith. “Did you, Keith ‘Mullet McGee’ Kogane… really just clap… for _me_?”

Keith narrows his eyes, mouth opening and then snapping shut. He clears his throat and turns his attention to the floor, glaring at the linoleum. And, suddenly, the intro to ‘Let’s Hear It for the Boy’ echoes throughout the room.

Lance isn’t sure what overtakes him, but the music resounds in his bones and, as he’s done many times before to Hunk and Pidge, he starts singing. His mom used to blast this music in the car when she took Lance and his siblings to school in the morning before heading to work. She’d roll down the window, just a hair, and sing along as if the lyrics were woven into her DNA. Lance always thought she had the most beautiful voice. “Your mother was given a very special gift,” his dad used to say.

Of course, nothing was quite as beautiful as the way she sung the enchanting _boleros_ she had grown up with. His youngest sister and a couple of his cousins sung in their local choirs. A distant relative even made an appearance on Broadway, if Lance remembered correctly.

Lance has lived with music his entire life.

There’s a chance he’ll look back on this moment and regret it. But for now? Might as well let the Cheesy Romantic inside of him take over for a bit.

“ _My baby, he don’t talk sweet_ ,” Lance croons, swaying his hips teasingly from side to side. “ _He ain’t got much to say but he loves me._ ”

Keith is redder than his Converse, and it’s _incredible_.

“ _Loves me, loves me. I know that he loves me anyway_.” Lance is close enough now to feel the brush of Keith’s knees against his own. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpses Pidge and Hunk. Pidge is doubled over, shaking with quiet snickers, and Hunk sways from side-to-side to the beat of the music.

“ _And maybe he don’t dress fine_ —“ Lance scoffs and mouths ‘it’s the mullet’ as he bends and snags Keith’s hand, dragging him to his feet”— _but I don’t really mind. Because every time he pulls me near, I just want to cheer_...”

Lance pulls Keith against him, wrapping an arm securely around the other boy’s waist. It’s a lot like serenading a plank, what with the way Keith remains stiff and unyielding in his embrace. But a really fucking cute plank.

“ _Let’s hear it for the boy! Let’s give the boy a hand_ ,” Lance belts out. And, to his surprise, he isn’t the only one shouting along to the chorus. Pidge and Hunk try between bouts of laughter. Several of the strangers in neighboring lanes have joined in, none as loud or enthusiastically as Lance. “ _Let’s hear it for my baby! You know you gotta understand. Oh, maybe he’s no Romeo, but he’s my loving one-man show_.”

There’s a break in the singing, and Keith seizes the opportunity to try and talk over the music. “What are you doing?”

“Being terrible,” Lance explains briefly, but the song continues. “ _My baby may not be rich, he’s watchin’ every dime. But he loves me, loves me, loves me.”_

Keith buries his face in the crook of Lance’s neck. In an instant, Lance’s mind goes blank and every memorized lyric escapes him. “This is insane, Lance. Everyone’s watching,” Keith hisses.

“This is what the kids these days call ‘serenading.’” Lance foregoes the next few lines of the song. “The cool kids, at least.”

“Is this how you woo all of your dates?”

Lance hums, considering. “This is actually a first for me. I don’t think any of the times I’ve sung to family members count.”

“You never sang to any of your exes?”

“Negatory, my dude. Unless Hunk and Pidge count as exes, which I know they don’t.”

There’s a slight lull in their conversation before Keith responds haltingly. “I’m sorry about ruining our first date.”

 _First date_. The two words circle around inside Lance’s skull, swirling and twirling to the rhythm of the music. _Keith considers this_ _trainwreck of a night to be their first date._

“You didn’t ruin it,” Lance urges. “If anything, I’m the one who ruined it by not telling you it was going to be a date in the first place.”

“No, I… I liked it. I really did, okay?”

The butterflies in Lance’s stomach return with a vengeance. “Okay.”

“Even though you spilled water in my lap…”

“Oh God, don’t remind me,” Lance whines.

“And you had to call Hunk to save you from a meltdown,” Keith teases, tone light and flirtatious, with just enough seriousness for it to still feel in-character.

“Meltdown, huh? I’m starting to wonder if you and Hunk are working together. Plotting my untimely demise, right? Is it because you had to wear my ugly ass sweatpants? Not that they look bad on you.”

 _Not at all_ , Lance silently appraises. Seeing Keith in his ratty old sweatpants, the pair worn by his high school swim team, causes Lance’s heart to do flip flops in his chest. He easily pictures his fingers sliding under the waistband, over the subtle curve of Keith’s hips until the thick fabric slides down, pooling around his ankles.

“No, I like the sweatpants actually,” Keith replies frankly.

“You can keep them.” The words feel like they’re punched out of Lance. He can hardly trust himself to speak right now, but his traitorous mouth doesn’t seem to get the memo. “I don’t need them.”

“Oh.”

“Unless that’s... Too weird?”

“Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“I probably have, like, ten pairs of sweatpants, dude, of course not.” Lance softens his voice. “I want you to have them.”

“Oh, um. Cool. Thanks.” There are a few more seconds of tense silence.  “Can we just… I know you’ll probably hate me for this, but can we take things slow?”

Lance instinctively clenches his fingers in the fabric of Keith’s shirt— _his_ shirt. “Of course I don’t mind, you dork. And, contrary to popular belief, I don’t hate you.”

“So…”

“Yeah, I can slow my roll. We’ll work up to… boyfriends.” _Boyfriends, holy fuck, were he and Keith actually going to be boyfriends?_ “As long as that’s something you still want?”

Keith’s nose softly brushes the column of Lance’s neck. “I do.”

A tiny noise, something akin to a laugh, trickles from between Keith’s lips, and then he goes silent. The warmth of his breath tickles Lance’s skin, spurring him to keep singing along. Lance lowers his voice to a whisper in hopes that only Keith can hear him.

“ _Let’s hear it for my man, let’s hear it for my man,”_ Lance rasps, adjusting his grip on Keith to pull him completely flush against his body. “ _Let’s hear it for the boy… Let’s hear it my baby…”_

They stay like that, Lance singing and Keith allowing Lance to guide them in lazy circles, until the song comes to an end. For the rest of the evening, the air around the two of them loses its tension. A casual arm around the shoulder or waist, an exchange of banter much like during class—each interaction happens naturally. Lance carefully toes the line between platonic and ‘something more’ for the remainder of the evening. But not once does he seem to make Keith uncomfortable.

And, boy, if that isn’t a step in the right direction.

At around 10 o’clock, Hunk finally pulls himself away from the ball rack and calls it quits for the night. Their group huddles together and, yet again, Keith and Lance fall into step beside each other, fingers brushing with every swing of their arms.

“Oh, shit,” Keith groans, right before they reach the exit. “I think I left my phone in the bathroom. I’ll meet you guys outside.”

Lance moves as if to follow, and Keith scoffs. “You don’t have to come, Lance. It’ll only be a couple seconds.”

The strangest sensation washes over Lance. An urge to trail behind Keith and protect him. From what, though? The secret bowling alley boogey man? _Chill out, dude_ , he silently chides himself. _There’s nothing to worry about_.

And, although there likely isn’t, Lance hovers in the doorway for a few extra seconds, fixated on the back of Keith’s head as he takes off.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Keith_

Of all the things for him to misplace, his _phone_? Really? Wasn’t that some sort of physical impossibility for a guy his age?

Keith checks the plastic seats in their lane first, just to be safe, but there are no cell phones to be seen. Retracing his steps, Keith goes back to his original plan: a trip to the bathroom.

The door falls open easily under his weight. Keith immediately seeks out the familiar black case, eyes scanning over the sink countertops, urinals, stalls, and—oh.

Poised in the center of the bathroom is the kind of man suited to the cover of _Men’s Vogue_. Long strands of silvery white hair, possibly platinum blond, hang around his face in a dazzling curtain. His facial features are well-sculpted, from his cheekbones, to the bridge of his nose, down to the jut of his chin. He regards Keith critically through deep set amber eyes.

“I’m sorry, but would this happen to be yours?” The stranger retrieves Keith’s phone from his pocket. “It was resting on top of the soap dispenser.”

There’s a hint of an accent to his voice, but Keith can’t seem to place where from. His speech patterns are also a bit more formal than Keith is used to. Combined with the man’s striking appearance, Keith has to take a minute to gather himself. “I, uh. Yeah, that’s mine.”

“Ah yes, I figured as much.” Stretching his hand out toward Keith, the strange man smiles and cocks his head to the side. “You are clearly a man on a mission. I am pleased that I could be of service, Mister…?”

“Mister? Who—oh my God.” Keith feels like the world’s biggest idiot. “Kogane. You can just call me ‘Keith,’ though.”

“Keith Kogane… What a lovely name.”

Voice like honey, saccharine and heavy with the promise of decadence, the man utters Keith’s name reverently. His gaze sweeps over Keith, swaddled in Lance’s clothes, before coming to rest on his flustered expression. “I am quite sorry. It seems that you are in a rush. If we had more time, I would certainly offer you my number.”

 _Holy shit, is this guy hitting on me_? Keith chuckles nervously. “That’s alright. But thanks for holding onto my phone. I really appreciate it.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” the stranger practically purrs. “I am Lotor, by the way. I did not want to depart without exchanging names.”

“Right, Lotor. It’s been nice, but I have to catch up with my friends before they strand me here.”

“If that were the case, I would be all too happy to offer you a ride?”

 _Fuck_.

“No, no, it’s okay. Thanks for the offer.”

Keith tucks his phone in its rightful place and darts for the exit. As he leaves, he can almost swear he hears a sinister sounding laugh from behind him. But Keith isn’t concerned.

Male model or not, Lotor is far from a threat.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come cry with me over on tumblr or twitter @tobiologist. i really love talking to readers!! and please let me know if you make anything for this story :)


	4. step 4: charm him with pickup lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which nicknames need to be discussed, Pidge has her own way of helping, and Lotor tries to interfere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the late update again… i went to NOLA on vacation for a week and didn’t have much time to write. but!! once i came home, i had the chance to finish this bad boy and share it with you
> 
> firstly, i want to talk about lotor. a lot of people seem concerned about lance/lotor or keith/lotor happening at some point in this fic. i don’t want to give too much away but you’ll see in this chapter that lance and lotor have an… interesting history together. but i don’t plan on having any intimate or sexual scenes between either of the boys and lotor. he’s here to stir shit up and cause a little trouble, that’s about it. he and zarkon basically screwed over lance but that's all i can say for now....
> 
> i also want to thank a few people for the pickup lines i included in this chapter!! kat, enjayas, and jay gave me some great ideas. also a big thank you to kat for the addition of rover!!! i’m so thankful for all of your suggestions! as always, thanks to my marvelous beta and equally marvelous readers. i wouldn’t be posting this story if not for your support!! now…. enjoy :)

 

_Keith_

Keith really should’ve anticipated this now that he and Lance were dating.

Well, not officially _dating_ -dating but working towards dating. Neither of them wanted to slap a label on their relationship quite yet, an agreement they’d come to about a week ago now. But that’s not what’s important. What _is_ important is the discussion the two are currently having.

Lance taps his chin, peering at the ceiling. Meanwhile, Keith studies the Jenga tower. It balances in the center of the table amongst a few stray textbooks and notebooks. Pens and other writing utensils litter the area, along with a couple sets of plastic triangles, geometric stencils, and protractors. The stubby end of a pencil protrudes from the metal grip of a compass.

It started as a chance to study together. Lance invited Keith over to finish their latest flight dynamics assignment. At first, Keith suggested they meet at the library, but it was the perfect opportunity for some quality time together. Without Pidge, Hunk, Shiro, Matt— just the two of them. Even if it were spent slaving over stability and control derivatives. Keith would’ve felt like an absolute dick had he rejected the offer.

Plus, the completed assignment would probably span a whopping twenty-some, if not thirty, pages. Collaboration was crucial unless he wanted to live at the library for the next two days.

As a reward for finishing ahead of schedule, Lance pulled out the Jenga tower. According to him, it kept the trio occupied on nights they didn’t engross themselves in video games or binging a new Netflix show. Especially since their last binge had involved watching _The OA_ until 4 in the morning.

Keith leans a bit closer to inspect the miniature wooden skyscraper, granting it a thorough once-over. He reaches for one of the bricks. Lance continues to ponder over the ceiling and comments, “I can’t believe you didn’t like that one. That’s a personal favorite of mine.”

“’Are you from Tennessee? Because you’re the only ten I see,’” Keith repeats in a purposeful monotone. “Really, that’s it? Seems kind of unoriginal to me. Besides, you’ve said that about every single one so far, Lance. Which pickup line is actually your favorite?”

“That’s the fun part. The real mystery. It’s like a guessing game.”

“Guessing which horrendous pickup line you like the most?” The tower wobbles the slightest bit, and Keith slows his movements. “Sounds like a blast.”

“If you must know, the Tennessee line is probably my third favorite. Eh, maybe fourth. And, by the way, I don’t appreciate your sarcasm.” Lance sinks in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re honestly the worst.”

“Says the guy who knows more pickup lines than I thought was humanly possible.”

The Jenga piece just slips free when Lance blurts, “Guess what my shirt is made out of?”

Keith curses under his breath. Thankfully, the structure holds steady, and Keith gently places the block on top. “I don’t know, cotton?”

“Nope, better than cotton.” Lance pauses for dramatic effect. “Boyfriend material.”

 _Why do I have feelings for this dork again?_ Keith groans and gestures for Lance to take his turn. “Of course.”

“No? You don’t like that one either?” Lance scrutinizes the current arrangement. His tongue pokes out of his mouth in a gesture that’s way too cute to be fair. “That’s a classic. I thought everyone knew it.”

“I appreciate the fact you think I know anything about pickup lines. I guess? I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not.”

“I mean, yeah. You’re cute.” Lance withdraws the Jenga brick with a flourish of his hand. “And smart and cool.” He slides it on top alongside Keith’s block. “Even if you are a dick sometimes. Not in a truly dickish way, though, because you’re a good dude. My _best_ dude, other than Hunk. No offense.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I pretty much expected you heard most of these lines already. You have a Tinder! Well, you _had_ a Tinder. Thirsty guys would kill to score a guy like you.”

Warmth settles in the pit of Keith’s stomach. His stupid face is probably red. _Dammit, Lance_.

“So I guess it is meant to be a compliment,” Keith comments, hoping his tone comes off as nonchalant. What with his burning cheeks and the butterflies flapping around in his stomach. “Thank you?”

“You don’t have to thank me for complimenting you,” Lance scoffs. “I’m your _boyfriend_ , dude.”

Keith freezes, fingers poised inches away from the Jenga tower. “Uh…”

“Okay, ‘kind of boyfriend.’” Lance flashes some lackluster air quotes. “But I’m allowed to compliment you now. One could even argue compliments are _encouraged_. I should be drowning you in them.”

“Oh, good,” Keith drawls. Although he can’t help but think how much he enjoys Lance’s compliments. They’re always completely out of the blue, which gives them a genuine sort of quality Keith isn't used to. It isn’t like Keith goads Lance into showering him with praise either. “I’m ready for the onslaught.”

“No, no, we’re not doing that right now.”

“Oh?” Keith very carefully pinches a Jenga bar between his fingers.

“Yeah, we have more important things to worry about. Like… Oh! I don’t know if you noticed, but I was feeling sorta off today.”

“Really?” Keith subconsciously tilts his chin, trying to gauge the structure’s stability. “I didn’t even notice.”

“Yeah, but don’t worry.”

Keith wiggles the block free and heaves a tiny sigh of relief when nothing topples over. “You sure?”

“Definitely. I mean, I’m doing a lot better now.” Keith finds a spot for the brick on top, just as the next words leave Lance’s mouth. “Because you certainly turned me on.”

Keith has to physically restrain himself from bashing his forehead into the table. “Oh my God.”

Lance bounces excitedly in his seat. Somehow, he avoids shaking the whole table. The pivotal Jenga match carries on. “Okay, that was a good one, though! I had you going there for a second. Admit it!”

So what if Keith had been worried?

“It was only a little better than the others,” Keith decides on. “Also, your turn, Mr. Champion.”

“Hey, that title is not to be _mocked_. It is to be revered… praised…”

“Lance, I’ve told you a million times. It doesn’t count as a nickname if _you_ come up with it for yourself.”

“Oh, it totally does.” The tip of his tongue peeks out from between his lips once again. Lance squints at the tower, spinning his pointer finger in a circle as he tries to pick. Eventually, he stops, mutters, “aha!” and reaches for a piece. “Is this how you’re going to be about pet names, too, Mr. Stick-in-the-Mud?”

Keith’s mouth tugs into a frown. “Stick in the—seriously?’

“Or would you prefer ‘babe’?” Lance makes his move far too quickly. Keith has never seen someone so clumsy transfer a Jenga block so damn smoothly. “Because that one rolls right off the tongue. It kinda suits you.”

Two can play at this game. “Oh no, Lance, we’re not discussing pet names right now.” Keith tips his head to the side and flutters his lashes innocently. “Remember? We’re on pickup lines.”

But then it backfires on Keith. Because _of course_ it does.

“Hah! So you admit that you’re enjoying them,” Lance cries triumphantly. Keith tries to tune out his overzealous reaction and contemplates his next move. “I knew it!”

In a strange sort of fucked up way, Keith supposes he _does_ enjoy them. Sure, he’s received passing compliments in the past from strangers. Lance’s teasing, on the other hand, is a totally different story. Because Keith sees the ridiculous pickup lines for exactly what they are: affectionate.

Maybe Keith is weird, but he enjoys his banter with Lance. The back-and-forth of their arguments, no real malice behind their raised voices and, in Lance's case, flailing arms. No one can get a rise out of Keith quite like Lance can. Effortlessly, without the threat of flying fists or broken noses.

And Lance is the most flirtatious person Keith knows. Before they were even friends, Keith begrudgingly watched Lance hit on classmates. Tossing around exaggerated winks and cringe-worthy compliments like they were going out of style, in the halls and in lecture halls, in the fucking line to _buy lunch._ When it comes to Keith, though, Lance takes a very… unique approach.

Lance is far more of a gentleman than Keith would have ever pegged him for. Not once has he pushed Keith too far, and physical contact is kept to a minimum. Gentle fingers resting on Keith’s forearm or tucking stray hairs behind his ears. An arm around Keith’s shoulders when they sit on the couch, sometimes a head pillowed on Keith’s shoulder. They have yet to do more than spoon whenever Keith accidentally falls asleep against Lance during a movie, forcing the two to spend the night in the same bed.

Hell, they haven’t even _kissed_ yet.

But the elephant in the room has yet to be addressed. Keith refuses to bring up the subject and turn it into an issue when it legitimately isn’t.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Keith mumbles. It’s his go-to in situations such as this, when Lance has him at a loss for words. He hopes Lance doesn’t see through the act and instead returns his attention to the game. He finds his next target, shimmying the Jenga block free. The column of little wooden bricks teeters but rights itself.

“So, you kinda remind me of a Wheel of Fortune puzzle,” Lance remarks offhandedly.

 _Oh no._ “And why’s that?”

“Because I wanna hang out with you before and after.”

Keith clicks his tongue. “Really, Lance? I think they’re getting worse.”

“Fine, geez, let me step up my game then.” Lance observes as Keith deposits his piece. “I don’t know why it matters, though, if you don’t even enjoy them.”

“If you’re going to keep this up,  you might as well use decent ones,” Keith explains. And immediately wants to stick his foot in his fucking mouth. Now Lance will never quit. “Or, you know—“

“I’ll hit you with another winner after this round.” Lance flicks his wrist and, in a freakish display of competence, moves one of the pieces. “Okay, get ready.”

“I was born ready.”

“So, important question for you.”

“Oh, please, lay it on me.” Keith withdraws his next Jenga brick and, this time, totally expects the framework to crumple. Strangely, it doesn’t.

“Are you a parking ticket?”

“Can’t you tell?”

“ _Keith_.”

“Alright, fine. I don’t know. Why?”

Lance grins, buzzing with smug satisfaction. “Because you’ve got fine written all over you.”

Keith almost drops the block. “Fu—Lance!”

“That one must’ve been better. You only get that flustered when they’re good.” Lance leans over the table to take his turn. “Keithy McMullet likes my smooth pickup lines,” he singsongs.

“I—I can’t believe the tower hasn’t fallen over yet,” Keith laughs. He needs to change the topic of this conversation before Lance realizes he _actually enjoys his stupid pickup lines, oh God._ “Fucking Jenga.”

“Are you an astronaut?”

Keith pauses, Jenga brick held in midair. “Not yet.”

“Well, you’re definitely getting there because“ –Lance aims finger guns in his direction—“that ass is out of this _world_.”

“Yeah, you already used that one,” Keith scoffs.

A beat of silence.

“Shit! I did?” Lance digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone. Frantically, he scrolls through what Keith can only imagine are their texts. “What day was— when?”

“Nope, not there.”

“Oh… um.” There are more wiggling hand motions before Lance audibly gasps. “Okay, but it isn’t _exactly_ the same. ‘Is your mom an alien? Because dat ass is out of this world.’”

The way Lance says ‘dat’ is enough to make Keith snicker. Only Lance can get away with saying that word out loud in a totally serious manner. _Dat ass._ Keith adds it to his mental list of ‘Ridiculous Phrases Lance Uses on a Daily Basis that Somehow Work.’

“See? In that stunning example, I used your mom. _Not_ the fact you were an astronaut,” Lance spells out, like he would be explaining the difference to a five year old. “So obviously they’re separate.”

 _I’ve never met my mom,_ Keith almost rebukes. But stops himself before the admission slips out. _Not yet_.

“Besides, any variation of that gem works. I could use it a million times, a million different ways, and it would still be just as amazing every time.”

“Right…” Keith gestures toward the tower. “It’s you.”

Lance pulls one of the bricks and, for the first time since they’ve started playing, the structure sways. More than it has during any of Keith’s turns and certainly more than it has during Lance’s. For a moment, Keith pictures the entire structure collapsing, bricks piling in Lance’s lap. It’s a strangely gratifying mental image.

But, a second later, it readjusts itself.

“That was a close one,” Lance breathes, wiping invisible sweat from his brow. He places the Jenga brick in its new space. “But you know how it is. Me? I play a mean game of Jenga.”

“I’m pretty sure no one says that,” Keith quips.

“They totally do!” Lance huffs and purses his lips in a pout. “Go for it, Mr. Sore Loser.”

Okay, Keith would rather Lance use sickeningly sweet pet names than these uninspired and, frankly, insulting nicknames.

“Oh, I am. You’ll see.” Keith puffs out his chest, never one to back down from a challenge, and scouts for his target. A piece near the middle seems like a smart choice. “Just watch me.”

“Oh I am, hotshot—“

_Hotshot? Really?_

“And, while I’m at it, I noticed something weird on the seat of your pants.”

Keith forces himself to ignore Lance’s taunting and reaches for the block. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, like you sat in sugar.”

“Ah,” Keith deadpans. Nope, not happening. He won’t lose his focus.

“But that could just be my imagination.”

“Probably.”

“I mean,” Lance starts, and oh _no_. Keith knows that tone. The drawn out syllables and significant pause, the set of Lance’s jaw and splay of his palms as he props his elbows on the table. “You do have a pretty sweet ass.”

And that’s it.

“What the _fu—_ “ Keith’s arm jolts, and the Jenga brick in his grip jostles any nearby bricks. The entire tower sways to the left, then forward, before starting to topple over right before Keith’s very eyes. He swears the disaster happens in slow motion, block by block, layer by layer.

Looks like he’s the dumbass with a lap full of Jenga bricks.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Keith_

This is a normal day for Keith and Pidge.

A bag of nacho cheese Dorito’s sits on Keith’s mattress, open and missing half of its contents. A stack of notecards held together with a rubber band, various pictures, and a spool of yarn, strewn across the covers in a semi-organized fashion. The printer on Keith’s desk whirrs softly in the background. He hadn’t bothered to unplug it because he knew they’d be using it again.

Keith steps closer to the bed and snags a thumbtack. Considering the size of the sheet, though, he’ll likely need more. He grabs three more thumbtacks, just in case, and turns back to his work.

The board.

Or ‘the wall of horrors,’ as Shiro sometimes joked. Pictures cover the wall opposite his bed, connected by string and worn notecards littered with Keith’s familiar scrawl. A few were clearly written by Pidge, but, as a permanent fixture in Keith’s room, he did most of the note taking. Underneath lies a full map of the United States. Several places on the map have been marked with red circles, question marks, or stars. To anyone else, it would look like a bunch of gibberish. But Keith and Pidge have been working long enough to make sense of every symbol and handwritten code.

“So, you think the meteor shower from a couple weeks ago is connected to a crash landing?” Keith slides comfortably into the spot at Pidge’s side. She has yet to look away from the board. “I haven’t had a chance to go out to the woods and check but…”

“I’d put my money on it.” Pidge twitches her head in a nod and holds out a hand. Keith rolls his eyes, plopping a Dorito in her palm. He’s rewarded with a quick flash of teeth. “Thanks, partner.”

“Don’t mention it, partner.”

After watching _Westworld_ together, Pidge discovered Keith’s secret love of Westerns. It was one of many closely guarded secrets Keith kept under wraps to avoid jokes— specifically from Lance. But Keith unfortunately hadn’t been able to dismiss Pidge’s accusation.

Of course, she then had to bring up the time he said, “It’s been an honor flying with you boys,” after meeting his untimely demise during a flight simulation game. Shiro and Matt hadn’t been much help in the matter either. Matt laughed so hard, he _cried_. There were actual _tears_ streaming down his face.

Yeah, just a tad embarrassing.

“If a ship crashed out there, though, we’ll have to take a look soon. Before the government can get their grubby hands on it,” Pidge carries on, watching as Keith hangs the latest picture. A somewhat blurry view of the meteor shower, taken on Keith’s phone, is added to the menagerie of information. “It wouldn’t be the first time they beat us to a crash site.”

Try the _fifth fucking time_. Not that Keith’s counting or anything.

“Oh yeah,” Keith agrees. “The faster we find it, the better.”

Rover chooses that moment to trot into the room. The pug has belonged to the Holts for a couple years now, all wrinkles and stubby legs. There’s something unspeakably cute about his little black nose and curly tail. Keith often dogsits the adorable pug whenever Matt or Pidge are out. He gets along with Keith’s regrettably picky tabby cat, Red, and never causes trouble around the apartment. He’s also one of few dogs to actually take a liking to Keith. As a matter of fact, the first time Keith watched Rover, the dog didn’t want to go home.

Keith bends over to scratch behind the pug’s ears, delighting in the pleased noise he gets in return.

“You think Lance will wanna come?” Pidge wonders.

“What? On the hunt for a crashed UFO?”

 _He doesn’t need to burden himself with my bullshit. Not yet. Not_ this _bullshit._

“Uh, yeah, duh. It’s Lance. He may not have the same, uh, _level_ of interest as the two of us. But he’s always down for crazy shit that may or may not get him into trouble. I haven’t invited him in the past because—”

“We didn’t get along.”

Pidge’s brows creep up into her hairline. “Right… but now that you’re at least pseudo-dating, I can bring the both of you without it being awkward as fuck.”

Then, realization dawns on her face.

“Oh no. I hadn’t even considered— please, for the love of all that is good and scientifically efficient, don’t taint my innocent—”

“Innocent? Are you—”

“—eyes with your PDA. I draw the line at handholding and the occasional kiss. Oh, and hugging is fine. With minimal ass grabbing.”

“I don’t think that will be, um. Much of an issue?” Keith can only imagine the color of his cheeks. Rover pads over to his mattress and hops up, nudging the chip bag over to make more space for his tiny, furry body.

“It’s Lance. You honestly expect me to believe that?”

 _Oh boy_. “Yeah, but, you know. Sometimes, when two people are new to dating each other, they don’t. Well.”

Pidge’s facial features morph into something more quizzical. A hand on her hip, nose scrunched in the trademark Holt expression of skepticism. “Yeah?”

“We haven’t exactly”—Keith interrupts himself, wetting his suddenly dry lips— “kissed yet.”

“Wha— _really_?” Pidge clears her throat. “I mean, uh, really?”

“I know it's weird,” Keith mumbles. His fingers hover over their newest piece of evidence, brushing over blurry streaks of white light. “But the last time I kissed anyone was back in fucking _high school_.”

“Ah, good ole Nick Splaine. I remember catching you two in the hallway senior year, sucking each other's faces off,” Pidge reminisces, disturbingly wistful.

That's not exactly how Keith remembers it. Nick was conventionally attractive. Dark curls covered his head, jawline sharp enough to cut through steel, and a sturdy torso supported by thick thighs and strong calves. Quarterback for the school's football team, the son of a wealthy family. And deep in the closet.

Older and maybe a bit jaded Keith recognizes the arrangement for what it was. Nick “Denial” Splaine needed an outlet, and Keith's persistent curiosity made him the perfect candidate. He would sneak into the locker room or they would meet in the halls, whenever no one was around. Nick refused to go over to Keith’s house— mostly because he was intimidated by Shiro— so they took advantage of any free time between classes or football practice.

Admittedly, it had been fun. Nick was a decent enough kisser in they eyes of seventeen-year-old Keith. And, on the bright side, Keith learned a valuable lesson from the whole charade: he was infinitely more attracted to guys than girls.

Not that girls weren’t _nice_. His best friend was a girl, after all. But there was never a spark when he kissed them. So, yeah, he was gay.

Thanks, Nick Splaine.

“I can’t believe you threatened to chop off his dick if he hurt me,” Keith recalls.

“That surprised you? Come on, you know how I felt about douchewad Splaine.” Pidge slides back and snags a notecard from the bed. She retrieves the pen from behind her ear. “Anyway, yeah, I'm a little shocked you and Lance haven't kissed yet. Mostly because Lance is, well, _Lance_ , but he's also a good guy so I know he hasn't yet for your sake.”

“Yeah…” She has a point; Lance may be many things but pushy is certainly not one of them. Not once has he tried to force himself on Keith. “I know. But…”

_I think I… maybe… want him to kiss me?_

Keith keeps that thought to himself.

Right on cue, his phone vibrates in his pocket. Lance? A surge of nervous anticipation overtakes him, and he silently curses his body for betraying him like this. Keith digs out his phone, zeroing in on the notification bar.

 

 **Lotor** : _I certainly hope this is the correct number._

Keith stares at the screen. He stares and _stares_ and, fuck, he can't tear his gaze away. The name sounds vaguely familiar. And then he remembers— the creep from the bowling hall bathroom. What the hell?

Thankfully, Pidge appears too distracted to notice. “Alright, back to the good stuff, lover boy. Based on the trajectory of the ship or, in this case, the biggest meteor in this picture, we should be able to determine where it crashed with a maximum 5 mile margin of error.”

“Yeah, um. That sounds about right.” Keith hesitantly unlocks his phone. Does he even answer? More importantly, how the fuck did Lotor have the time to add his number? And _why_? “We can figure it out.”

 

 **Keith** : _how did you get my number?_

 

Keith has always preferred the straightforward approach. Lotor’s response comes seconds later.

 

 **Lotor** : _I simply added it to your phone and sent myself a message._

_We did not have the opportunity to talk much so I assumed this would be more favorable._

 

His grammar and formal speech unnerve Keith, even through text. At Keith’s side, Pidge jots down notes on the ship's flightpath and most likely point of impact. She murmurs to herself and pays no attention to Keith's pinched expression and typing fingers.

 

 **Keith** : _oh okay_

_I have a boyfriend_

 

And isn't that weird to think about? Not in a bad way, of course. There's a pleasant sort of finality in seeing the word written out. Blinking back at him, concrete and very much real. _Boyfriend._

 

 **Lotor** : _I see._

_Although I was not trying to proposition you, this is important information to have._

**Keith** : _shit I'm sorry_

_I just kinda assumed…_

**Lotor** : _The thought is certainly enticing but it is quite alright._

_May I ask what his name is?_

**Keith** : _lance_

 

Some random guy Keith met once— in the _bathroom_ , no less— doesn't deserve to know Lance's full name. For all Keith knows, the guy could be a serial killer.

Pidge hums loudly, tapping a spot on the map. “I'm sure we could take the Jeep. Matt and Shiro aren't going anywhere anytime— wait, what are you doing?”

Keith immediately locks his phone and crushes it against his chest. “Uh. Texting?”

“Obviously, dude, but who?” Pidge cranes her neck, trying to catch a glimpse of Keith's phone screen. “I would say Lance, but I have no idea why you'd hide it from me. His mushiness isn’t anything new to me.”

“Um—”

“Unless! No, it has to be someone else. Someone I don't know…” Pidge flicks the finished notecard at Keith. “Spit it out, Kogane. Who is it?”

There's no sense in lying to Pidge. Besides, she's known Keith longer than she’s known Lance. She'll keep it hush-hush.

“You don't know him…” Keith trails off, and Pidge jabs her elbow roughly into his side. “Hey!”

“What the hell? You just started dating Lance! I love you and whatever but I won't hesitate to kick your _ass_ if you cheat on him.”

“I'm not— You know I wouldn't do that.”

“Not to sound like a dick but you're not one for making new friends. You have to understand why I'd jump to conclusions.”

“But I also never date?”

“Ugh, fine, that's true, too. Still! I'm so confused right now,” Pidge huffs. She shuffles over to the bed and slides the bag of chips over, making herself right at home. Rover slides gracefully into her lap, tail wagging, and gets comfortable. Pidge points a Dorito at Keith before popping it in her mouth. “Explain.”

Keith straightens up, taking a deep breath. “Okay. So. Remember when we were at the bowling alley? When Lance and I…” He swallows. “danced?”

Pidge scoffs. “Of course I remember. Wait… oh. This is gonna be good, I can feel it.” She scoots around and crams her hand into the bag, cellophane crinkling as she pulls out a clump of chips. “What about it?”

“Well, I left my phone behind. Right?” Keith fidgets in place. “In the bathroom?”

“Oh boy,” Pidge replies, drawing out the ‘o’ sound. “Yeah.”

“It was in the bathroom and… there was this guy there. He held onto it for me.”

“Okay?”

“And, uh. Yeah.”

Pidge chews, suspicion written into every line creasing her forehead. A stretch of heavy silence passes before her eyes widen, and she smacks a hand over her mouth. Rover lets out an irritated grunt. “No,” she cries through Dorito-stuffed cheeks.

“Yeah.”

“What a creep! Finds a stranger's phone and adds his number? Who does that?”

A thought strikes Keith, and the phone nearly slips out of his grasp. If Lotor added the number before Keith showed up, did that mean he'd been watching him? It was the only way he would've known who the misplaced phone belonged to.

“He was watching me,” Keith whispers, disbelieving. “Pidge, what do I do?”

“Tell him to fuck off,” Pidge deadpans. She leans back, bunching up the covers. Her canine companion curls into an even tighter ball in her lap. “Plain and simple.”

Maybe Lance is rubbing off on Keith. In the past, he would've been blunt without worrying over the consequences. But now—

“Isn't that a little too harsh?”

“Nah,” Pidge answers with a shrug. “You need to drop that as soon as possible. And to answer your next question, because I know it’s coming, I won't tell Lance.”

Keith breathes a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Pidgeon.”

“You get a free pass this time, but you know how I feel about nicknames, especially that one,” Pidge gripes. “Be glad you're _you_ or your ass would be grass.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Keith insists through a smirk. “I really do appreciate it, though.”

“You're getting soft on me, _McMullet_ ,” Pidge practically purrs, savoring Keith's full-body cringe at the jab. “Now, let's get back to business. We have a UFO to salvage.”

Pidge stands and reclaims her rightful place in front of the board. Rover growls, clearly put out by the change in position, and leaps off the bed. The pug scampers over to Keith and sits, gazing up in wonder at his third favorite human. Meanwhile, Pidge pins her notes to the meteor shower picture and steps back, appraising her work. The red pen finds its way into her grip once more as she sketches little circles in certain places on the map.

Keith looks on silently before glancing down at his phone.

 

 **Lotor** : _I once was involved with a boy named Lance_.

 

And another message, sent a couple minutes later.

 

 **Lotor** : _But I can see you're concerned._

_You do not have to worry about any more messages from me._

 

Keith’s skin prickles as he reads. He abruptly locks his phone without dignifying Lotor’s last text with a response.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Lance_

Another week, another party.

But this one is different. _Special_ in Lance's mind, at least, because this is the first party they've thrown since he and Keith started dating. Which means it'll be the best party to date. Food? Check. Drinks? Check. Keith? Definitely check.

“There's a lot of people here tonight,” Keith says, raising his voice to be heard over the music. Lance's playlist currently blares through the speakers in the living room, and everyone in the nearby area sways and bounces to the beat. “What's the occasion?”

“Us,” Lance replies proudly.

“ _Lance—”_

 _“_ Kidding, kidding.” Lance grins. Everything has been going smoothly, and he can't help but feed off the positive energy swirling around them. “But, in case you haven't figured it out yet, I am lowkey using this as an excuse to celebrate you saying yes.”

“To dating-not-dating?” Keith mirrors the satisfied curl of Lance's lips.

“You know it,” Lance laughs. With this many guests, it's easy to excuse their close proximity. That and the fact they're exclusive now. Barely a foot stands between them. “To being boyfriends-not-boyfriends.”

“You're such a dork.”

“Says you, Mr. President’s List.”

“Okay, we really do need to have a talk about nicknames,” Keith grumbles. But Lance doesn't miss the step he takes closer. “And, for your information, I haven't made the President’s List since freshman year.”

“Well! My point still stands. You're a dork, through and through.” Lance cocks his head, appreciating the flush coloring Keith's cheeks. Partly from the beer and partly from their closeness. “Not that it's a bad thing. And you're _my_ dork.”

“I take it back,” Keith whispers. His voice is husky, darker, heavy with the promise of things to come. Of course, what those _things_ are, Lance has yet to figure out. But he's definitely intrigued. “You're more of a sap than a dork.”

“Aren't they interchangeable?”

“For you, yes.”

“Why am I attracted to you again?” Lance hums softly under his breath. What he wouldn't give to smooth his fingers over Keith's cheekbones, to feel the warmth of his skin. It takes him a moment, in his tipsy state, to realize he actually can now. “Oh, right. Because you're Keith.”

The statement seems to stun Keith into silence. There's a glaze over his eyes from the alcohol, but the blue-voilet of his irises glitter under the low lighting. _Beautiful_.

“Wh— What does that mean?” Keith eventually asks. His chin juts upward, just enough to bring both of their mouths level. The faint odor of beer lingers on his breath. “Because... I'm Keith?”

“You know… you're smart and tough and stubborn and… you put up with me all the time and... and you love pineapple and planes and aliens and Oscar Isaac and… you're really. Really _good_.” The words spill out of Lance in a flood. “I like all of that about you. I like that you're Keith.”

Keith inhales sharply, and Lance feels it against his lips. The air steadily grows thicker around them until Lance gives in, slipping an arm around Keith's waist, pulling them completely flush. Like at the bowling alley, he savors the contact. Keith is a solid weight against him, muscle and soft skin, hot to the touch. His face flushes even redder. Lance's other hand aches to brush along the curve of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the swell of his bottom lip and the sensitive spots behind his ears. His fingertips yearn to smooth out the barely there wrinkles that line Keith's forehead as his brow furrows, quietly contemplating Lance.

They make eye contact for an instant before Keith steals a glance at Lance's lips. His stare is unwavering and raises goosebumps along Lance's arms. Pink darts out from between Keith's lips, tongue lazily dragging across chapped skin.

How long has Lance wanted this? The effortless intimacy and insatiable yearning, the tugging in his chest from a single moment of charged eye contact alone. Is this normally what it feels like before kissing someone you… oh _no_.

Lance feels like he might explode. “Keith—”

“Spin the bottle!”

The sudden cry startles them both apart. Keith looks like someone poured ice water over his head, expression open with shock. Lance imagines he doesn't look much better. He turns his attention to find the source of the voice: Nyma.

She proudly holds an empty beer bottle up for everyone to see. Rolo slings an arm around her shoulders and laughs, sweeping his arm around the room. “Let’s get it going!” he echoes.

Lance watches in stupefied silence, brain still trying to reboot after his (maybe) moment with Keith, and swallows nervously at the sight of people claiming their seats on the floor. Rolo and Nyma plop down, bottle in her grasp, and encourage everyone to huddle closer for the game. It comes as only a little bit of a surprise when Pidge lowers herself to the floor, legs crossed, and beckons Keith and Lance over.

“C’mon,” she slurs, fingers fluttering in a ‘come hither’ gesture. “Aren’t you two gonna get in on this action?”

Hunk snorts, and Lance turns, met with his friend’s disgruntled face. “I’ll sit this one out.” Shay appears to agree with him. “Have fun, though.”

Lance hesitantly looks at Keith, searching for an answer in the arch of his brows. Constipated, that’s the only way Lance can think to describe the set of his mouth and narrowed eyes. He stifles a laugh and grabs for Keith’s wrist, lightly squeezing. The pressure jolts Keith and, in an uncharacteristic display of uncertainty, he levels Lance with a questioning stare. ‘Should we?’ it asks. And maybe he’ll regret it later, but inebriated Lance thinks it’s a _brilliant_ idea.

Drunk Lance lives for spin the bottle. Seven minutes in heaven, truth or dare— you name it. He loves them all.

“Why not?” Lance settles on.

The hint of a smirk plays at Keith’s lips. He nods and gladly follows Lance's lead, moving to join the others in their makeshift circle. The two of them take the spot between Rolo and Pidge. Unfortunately, Lance finds himself stuck next to Rolo. He’ll take it, though, if it means keeping the occasionally belligerent party guest away from Keith.

“Lance should go first,” Pidge snickers, glasses askew.  One sleeve of her tank top falls, but she doesn’t bother to fix it.

“Why me?” Lance whines.

“I don’t know. Just ‘cause.” Pidge shrugs and, as if just noticing the state of her shirt, glares at the dropped sleeve. “As long as I don’t have to kiss you. Bleh.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know that kissing these lips is an _honor_.” The bottle is shoved unceremoniously into his lap, and Lance gapes at Rolo. The dude has the nerve to wink as he hands it over. “But, yeah, that’d be real fuckin’ weird. The old rules are still in place. You and I can’t kiss and” --Lance bumps his shoulder fondly into Keith’s—”and neither can you and Keith.”

“No complaints here,” Pidge replies all too quickly. “I figured that was a given.”

Lance practically jumps out of his skin at the feeling of Keith’s lips, pressed to his neck, pulse fluttering wildly at the sensation. “I’m glad you said something,” Keith whispers but it comes out as more of a sultry purr than anything else. “There’s only one person in this circle that I wanna kiss.”

 _He’s going to be the death of me_. Lance mulls over the statement and corrects, _Drunk Keith is almost definitely going to be the death of me._

“Oh yeah?” Lance prompts, full well knowing the answer he’ll get.

“Mhmm,” Keith mumbles and, shit, it feels like a kiss along the column of his throat. “No one else.”

“Well, if you want—”

“What did I say about PDA?” Pidge bemoans. “Let’s get this game going, love birds.”

A flush, unrelated to the alcohol flowing through his veins, creeps up Lance’s neck. He decides to humor her and sets the bottle on the ground, spinning it with a flick of his wrist. Brown glass, spinning, before finally coming to rest on… damn. It’s a new girl, someone Lance doesn’t recognize.

“Well, alright,” Lance chuckles awkwardly and shifts onto his knees. The girl in question grins back but, seconds later, pales. Confused, Lance inspects the group and— wow. If looks could kill, Keith would have easily struck Lance’s partner dead in an instant. “It’s just a kiss, Keithy. Don’t worry,” he murmurs hurriedly under his breath.

His kissing partner edges closer, eyes darting anxiously between Keith and Lance, and stops with their mouths a hair’s breadth away. Slowly, she moves in for a kiss. Lance foregoes any sort of finesse and simply sits still. He swears the girl mumbles a brisk, “sorry,” into the press of their lips. It’s a chaste kiss, if it can even be called a kiss, and she pulls away a moment after it begins. 

Now, Lance has played these games for years. As a bit of a partier in high school, more so in college, Lance has kissed several strangers. They’ve been nothing more than fleeting kisses for silly party games but, every now and then, there have been ones that sent a spark of excitement through Lance.

This kiss, however, isn’t anything close. _Not Keith_. _You want to kiss Keith. It’ll be your first kiss. With Keith. Kissing_ Keith _. Keith, Keith, Keith._

Lance tells his brain to kindly _fuck off_ for now because they’re in the middle of a game where he’ll likely have to kiss people other than Keith. But the barrage of thoughts refuse to stop. It’s about to be a long, grueling game of spin the bottle for Lance.

The girl— Amy, maybe?— wastes no time returning to her original spot in the circle. The other girls around her giggle and playfully slap her on the back. “His boyfriend’s got _claws_ ,” one of them stage whispers. Or at least that’s what it sounds like to Lance.

Several rounds pass. Pidge kisses one of the Amy’s friends, a tall brunette with striking green eyes behind wide-rimmed glasses. After a few long minutes, Pidge leans back and smirks like the goddamned cat that caught the canary. She’s the real master of this game.

Rolo kisses a few different guys and girls. Nyma kisses Pidge, but it’s brief. Hardly notable in the scheme of things. And, by some miracle, Keith hasn’t kissed a single person by the time the bottle falls into his hands.

“Oh,” Rolo coos, “Who will be Kogane’s first kiss of the night?”

 _Me_ , Lance nearly blurts.

“Maybe it’ll be me,” Nyma teases. She flips a braided ponytail over her shoulder, observing Keith from beneath hooded eyelids, painted gold. “I’ll show him a good time.”

A few other people take their own guesses, but Keith blatantly ignores them. He stares down the neck of the bottle, fingers gliding over the label. Lance tracks the movement, the rounded knobs of his knuckles, as Keith sets the bottle down and spins.

There’s no way it’ll land on Lance.

Turning, turning.

He’s hardly ever that lucky.

Turning, turning.

Nyma is probably right. Or maybe it’ll be Rolo?

Turning, turning…

And it gradually comes to a stop.

The mouth of the bottle rests in front of—

“Oh,” Lance gasps. Because there’s no mistaking the direction the bottle is pointing.

“Um,” Keith says, echoing Lance’s sentiment. “Well.”

It’s Lance. Keith is supposed to kiss _Lance_.

Keith’s hands are sure when they reach for Lance. He doesn’t hesitate or stall. Confidence steadies his fingers as he cradles Lance’s face in his palms. Nails lightly scrape over his cheeks, eliciting a tiny noise that Lance doesn’t have the brainpower left to be embarrassed over.

“Easy peasy,” Lance chuckles because, hell, he can’t think of anything better to say.

“Easy peasy,” Keith mimics, voice gone hoarse. “Easy… peasy…”

Their lips are practically touching already. Keith cleary has no problem with sharing this intimate moment with relative strangers. Of course, if he’s anything like Lance, he’s been _dying_ to do this for weeks and refuses to wait even a second longer.

Keith licks his lips and, in the process, his tongue brushes over Lance’s own slightly parted lips.

 _Oh my God_. Lance sneaks his arms around Keith, coaxing him into his embrace. _This is really happening_.

“So this is where everyone ran off to!”

Both Keith and Lance immediately freeze.

_No._

_No, no._

_No, no, fucking_ no.

Lance reluctantly pulls back, slowly angling his head to pinpoint that horribly familiar voice. Cloying, deadly sweet, like the crisp flesh of the evil queen’s apple from _Snow White_. Each word dances through the air like the note of a song, and Lance wants to scream.

Him. Oh yeah, it’s him alright.

White strands of hair, practically silver in the light, frame the sharp lines of his face. Thin lips stretch to reveal two rows of glistening white teeth, irises a dizzying blend of yellows and oranges. He wears a black turtleneck shirt, long legs accentuated by the faded blue of his jeans. Svelte, sleek— the son of a bitch has always had that sort of presence about him.

Lance hardly trusts himself to speak, but he’ll be damned if he sits here quietly. “What… the _fuck_ are you doing here?”

Lotor blinks at him, pressing a hand to his chest, spindly fingers like the legs of a spider. “Me?”

“Lotor?”

Lance is surprised his neck doesn’t snap as he rounds on Keith. “You know him?”

“Uh…” Keith’s body is visibly taut with fear. “He’s the guy who… found my phone the other night at the bowling alley.”

Red creeps into Lance’s vision. His breath catches in his throat, lungs fighting to keep him from hyperventilating. _This is impossible._ Lance attempts to climb to his feet and wobbles with each jerky motion. _He shouldn’t be here. I told him to_ never come back.

“What did he say? He didn’t do anything to you, right? Like touch you?” Lance hardly recognizes his own voice. Desperation pulls his gaze to Keith, staring back from his place on the floor.

“No, no, he just…” Keith averts his gaze. “He just gave me back my phone.”

Lance wants to believe him. This is Keith, someone who means the fucking _world_ to him. But Lotor… Lance knows how this asshole operates.

“Get out,” Lance whispers. He can’t even tell who he’s addressing at this point. But everyone needs to be gone, needs to get the _fuck out of his apartment_.

Lotor tips his head to the side. A silvery strand of hair frees itself from behind his ear. “Now, Lance—”

“I said get out!” Lance’s hands clench into fists at his side. Red, red, the room is bathed in red. “Everyone just— Get. Out.”

Someone has the decency to turn the music off. The partygoers on the floor clamber to their feet and make a beeline for the door. Each of them is careful not to jostle Lance as they pass, providing him a wide berth.

Lance glimpses Keith and Pidge who have yet to budge. Pity flickers in their gazes, lips pursed, wearing identical expressions of concern. Once everyone else clears out of the room, Lance picks up Hunk’s unmistakable footfalls approaching from the kitchen.

And, of all the people to stay, Lotor.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Lance hisses. “Get the fuck out of my apartment.”

“I certainly did. But I do believe that you and I—”

“No, if you heard me, you’d be gone already.”

“Lance, please, you and Keith—”

That’s the final straw.

“ _Get out!”_ Something primal rips the words from Lance’s throat.

He can feel his body shaking, from the peaks of his shoulders to the tips of his damn toes. A shot of pain courses up his arm as the sharp edge of a fingernail digs into his palm. But his hands remained clenched tight.

Thankfully, Lotor obeys. His gaze flicks to Keith, fast enough that Lance nearly misses it, and then he’s heading for the door like the rest of the guests. He slips quietly out of the apartment without causing further trouble.

Lance glares holes into the door, hoping he can somehow burn Lotor to a crisp through the power of intent alone. He doesn’t have to look to know three sets of eyes are fixated on him. The strongest of them focuses on the back of his skull, frightened and confused.

“I’m sorry,” Lance croaks without turning around. He simply can’t. “I’m sorry.”

No one else has the courage to speak and break the tension.

“I’m so sorry.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come cry with me over on tumblr or twitter @tobiologist. i really love talking to readers!! and please let me know if you make anything for this story :)


	5. step 5: kiss him like you mean it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lance and Lotor’s history together is explored and Keith does his best to comfort his boyfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wake me up (wake me up inside)... here comes ya girl, skye, with another update! i’m sorry about the wait but i actually rewrote this chapter 3 times OOPS. it was hard deciding just how scummy I wanted lotor to be and how dark i wanted to make things. in the end, i had way too much fun exploring a topic i don’t see all that often in fics: toxic friendships. you'll quickly see how this relationship was toxic...
> 
> but now here we are— the longest chapter yet! hopefully the length (and ending ohoho) will make up for the wait. make sure to check out what [hunk’s car, the volkswagen thing](http://theman268.deviantart.com/art/Yellow-VW-Thing-322280569) looks like!! the suggestion actually came from my mom. aaaaand [lance’s “too gay for this world” tanktop.](https://www.lookhuman.com/design/89059-too-gay-for-this-world/3480bc-black-md?gclid=Cj0KEQjwv_fKBRCG8a3ao-OQuZ8BEiQAvpHp6EW_n779xa53_gm0_Oock_OOeXDhIDVoX82NJtcVqwkaAslY8P8HAQ)
> 
> as always, i hope everyone enjoys this chapter!! i made a couple adjustments to the tags and upped the rating because of… _things_ i have planned for these two sweet dorks. thanks to my fantastic beta and all of my readers! this story wouldn’t be possible without all of you! and without further ado, enjoyyy
> 
> also SORRY ao3 doesn't recognize emojis so it fucked up the posting at first... should be good now! i'm sad i couldn't include them but oh well

_Lance_

 

His first year of college, Lance meets Lotor.

 

Hunk ushers him into his yellow Volkswagen Thing on a Friday night. Usually, they swap out who drives to conserve gas and, more importantly, money. Their parents decided both cars could go as long as the boys split the costs and “didn’t do anything stupid.” Those were Sefina Garrett’s words. Especially since Hunk was bringing Lion, which he cherished with every fiber of his being.

 

So tonight is their college party initiation.

 

“I didn’t know that Sendak threw such dope parties,” Lance marvels as they pull up outside the house. It’s small, boxy, nothing too flashy. People loiter on the front lawn and on the porch, each holding a red cup or glass bottle, dancing and laughing amongst themselves. “By the way, how did you get him to invite us?”

 

“He needed help with Matlab.” Hunk puts the car in park and elbows Lance, indicating the crowd with a nod. “He’s not a huge fan of coding. Can’t say that I blame him.”

 

“Hunk, you’re a genius!” Lance raises his hand for a high five and a giggle slips out. He’s probably too excited, but who cares? Dancing and alcohol always make for a fun time. He then reaches into the backseat to retrieve the duffel bag. “What all did you get? I can’t imagine it was easy convincing Matt.”

 

“Yeah, we’re lucky Pidge can be a master of persuasion. I’ve never heard anyone use logic to talk their brother into buying two bottles of vodka for their underage friends.”

 

“Vodka?” Lance quickly yanks down the zipper. “Oh, man, Absolut. The original and some peach… Sweet! I hope they’ve got Sprite inside.”

 

“You know they will,” Hunk calls before he slams the car door behind him. It creaks on its hinges as it glides shut.

 

Lance shrugs the strap of the bag over his shoulder and steps out into the street. Crushed cups litter the walkway, the sidewalk and grass. He carefully navigates around any trash and makes a beeline for the front door. Cute girls— and guys, too, oh wow— as far as the eye can see. Lance needs to get his mcfrickin’ drink on soon before he can even consider wooing anyone. Not that his natural charm isn’t sufficient. It’s the whole “confidence with people completely out of his league” thing that poses a problem.

 

Hunk trails behind as Lance shoulders his way through the crowd of tipsy students. The telltale smell of weed envelops them as they push through the group lazing around on the porch. Did Lance bring his bowl? Oh well, doesn’t matter. Once they set foot inside the house, they’re surrounded by blaring music. Trap, definitely trap. Which makes sense considering this was put together by Sendak. The living room is packed with people engaged in what appears to be a game of Quarters. Everyone else stands around the perimeter, swaying like waves in the ocean, arms lifted over their heads as the beat of the song pounds through the walls.

 

“Good thing his parents are loaded,” Hunk whispers, leaning in close as they sidestep their way through throngs of inebriated people. “Not many students could get away with throwing a party like this without attracting the cops.”

 

“They’ve got a lot of friends in high places,” Lance murmurs back. He flashes a quick grin and finger guns at a group of girls as they pass. “Doesn’t mean the cops won’t show up eventually, though. We’ll have to make sure our asses are long gone before then.”

 

The kitchen isn’t quite as packed as the living room. Lance stalks over to the fridge— past two people making out, ugh— and opens the door. There are several two-liters inside, including a mostly full bottle of Sprite. Lance smirks. _Jackpot._

After mixing a drink for both of them, Lance stows the vodka bottles away and turns back in the direction they came. Hunk happily taps his cup to Lance’s, and they each take a lengthy swig, heads tilted back.

 

Lance hums contentedly and holds his arms out. Fingers flexing and bending, savoring the burn of alcohol and subsequent floaty feeling. A grin splits his face, and he drops his arms back to his side. Tingling pleasantly from head to toe, Lance struts forward, letting his hips sway from side to side to the rhythm of the music. Vodka tugs at his body, urges him to let loose and have _fun_. He’s earned it, after all the hard work he does on a weekly basis. His eyes slide shut for an instant and then open, half-lidded, as he surveys the other partygoers.

 

And that’s when he sees him.

 

First impressions can be deceiving but not in the case of Lotor. Near the center of the mass of writhing and grinding bodies, he’s sandwiched between two guys. Lance faintly remembers seeing the shorter guy in his introduction to aerospace class, while the other, he’s never seen before in his life. Both are equally attractive in their own respect. Strong with well-crafted features… Lance can’t help but be jealous. When’s the last time he ground against a hot dude? He misses the days of overenthusiastic lap dances in the shady basements of high school classmates.

 

_Good times._

 

Lance doesn’t feel any sort of attraction toward Lotor. Gawking in the entryway of Sendak’s kitchen, clutching a vodka and Sprite. There’s something sinister about the glint in Lotor’s eyes as he grinds against both men, something ominous and unsettling about the curl of his lips and gyrations of his body. Tipsy or not, Lance immediately knows he shouldn’t get mixed up with a guy like this.

 

“Who the hell is that?” Lance hisses and angles his head toward Hunk, standing right behind him.

 

“I think his name is Lotor.” Hunk spits the name like even the mere concept of it is revolting. “He and Sendak have been friends for practically ever.”

 

“Huh…”

 

“I've heard some crazy stories, though. They could be rumors, but I don't know. Drugs, theft, fights… I wouldn't get involved with him.”

 

As if sensing the attention, Lotor slows to a stop and mutters something under his breath. His eager companions step away, giving him ample room to extricate himself. Gleaming caramel irises zero in on Lance. They remind him of a predator appraising its prey, gauging how fast their dinner will run if they have to give chase. Lance’s pulse spikes.

“I don’t believe we have been properly introduced,” Lotor purrs. The dimmed lights play across his features, casting most of his face in shadow. “I am—”

 

“Lotor,” Lance interjects. “I know. I heard about you.”

 

Lotor scoffs. His friends have yet to scamper off and step forward until they bracket Lotor, blatantly glaring at Lance and Hunk. “I sense some animosity. Have I done something to upset you?”

 

“I’m not interested, dude.” Anxious, Lance slides back an inch or two. He tries to be inconspicuous for fear of what the guy’s beefy bodyguards will do if they notice. He’d like to keep his skull intact, thank you very much. “Just here to drink and dance, ya feel?”

 

Another laugh, darker. “I feel,” he mocks. “Although, I had no intention of… Well, I simply wanted to introduce myself. There is no harm in giving me your name, now, is there?”

 

 _Oh, there totally is_.

 

“Why do you care?”

 

“I like to get to know the guests.”

 

“But this isn't even _your_ party,” Lance replies defensively. His instincts are screaming at him to be abrasive, to shake this guy off before things escalate further.

 

Lotor sighs and lets his head droop, shaking it disappointedly. “Fine. If you really must know, I saw you and could not help but be intrigued.”

 

 _Intrigued_. God, Lance feels like he needs to take a shower. Maybe a good scrub will cleanse him of all the nasty vibes Lotor is giving off.

 

“I’m flattered, I guess, but…” Lance swallows. Tiny puffs of air stir the hairs at the nape of his neck, and he knows Hunk is close. Lance also knows he'll be pissed about this. “My name is Lance. Lance McClain.”

 

A grin, hideous in its shape, quirks the corners of Lotor’s mouth. He shifts like he plans to reach out for Lance and—

 

“We're gonna go dance now,” Hunk blurts. The weight of an arm drops on Lance's shoulders, urging him in the opposite direction. “We'll catch you around.”

 

Before Lance has the chance to act, Hunk pulls him along. The quick change in position causes the room to spin, to turn in wild somersaults across Lance's vision and _Jesus_. Subconsciously, he leans more of his weight against Hunk.

 

“Hey, I had that under control,” Lance pouts. A burp shudders his frame, and Hunk tightens his grip.

 

“Sure you did.”

 

“Can we at least dance?”

 

“A little,” Hunk sighs. “Just… stay away from Lotor. He gives me the creeps. Okay?”

 

Cup mostly empty, Lance doesn't dwell much on his conversation with Lotor for the rest of the evening.

 

 

* * *

 

 

But Lotor isn't going anywhere.

 

Although he never used to see him on campus, Lance starts seeing the guy everywhere. Grabbing a coffee, lounging at the library, even lurking outside lecture halls. And any time they're within a few feet of each other, Lotor tries to approach him.

 

After about the fifth time, Lance humors him. Because he's sick of this weird stalking bullshit. Like, who does that?

 

“What do you want?” Lance bemoans. He's sitting in the engineering commons, munching on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich when Lotor saunters by. “The staring is getting to be _really_ fucking creepy, dude.”

 

Lotor smiles and pulls out a chair, sliding into the seat to Lance's right. The student sitting across from them glances at Lotor, squinting through wide-rimmed glasses, before turning his focus back to his laptop. The tapping of fingers drowns out any nearby conversations.

 

“I have a small favor to ask of you,” Lotor insists. He twirls a strand of silvery hair around his middle finger, the power of his gaze holding Lance in place.

 

“What's that?”

 

“Your father works for mine.”

 

Lance's blood turns to ice in his veins. _No_. It has to be a lie. This is probably just some cruel ploy to manipulate Lance.

 

“What?”

 

“Galran Enterprises,” Lotor explains with a flippant swish of his hand. “The company has run in the family for several generations. I know that a McClain works in one of the local offices. Your father, yes?”

 

His stomach turns. This asshole— well, more specifically, this asshole’s _father_ — can dramatically change Lance's life in an instant.

 

“Okay, I get it now. What do you want from me?” Lance lowers his voice. They've attracted the attention of nearby students. Some of which know Lance and jump into his daily pre-lecture debates.

 

“You’re popular,” Lotor deadpans. He's moved on to another strand of hair, twirling it around his pinky, and leans closer as he continues talking. “Effortlessly charming, clever. Endearing. People _like_ you. Me, on the other hand? They hear of my family, and immediately want nothing to do with me.”

 

“So, what, you want me to walk around telling people how cool you are? That your dad isn't the biggest douchebag in the universe?”

 

“I suppose he is—”

 

_Wait, what?!_

“—Which is precisely why I would rather not be associated with him. We are separate individuals. People seem to forget that.” Lotor’s eyes flick to Lance's half-finished sandwich. “But if I were friends with someone like _you_... our peers may accept me.”

 

Lance blinks. This dude is really out here, looking for friendship? That's _it_? Of course, wanting to be friends with someone to improve your public image is pretty fucked up.

 

“Let me get this straight. You want us to become friends so people will stop hating you?”

 

“Basically, yes,” Lotor affirms, punctuating the short statement with a shrug. “I guarantee I can make it worth your while.”

 

 _Eugh_. The guy needs to work on his phrasing. Lance feels like he's either being talked into  buying drugs or being propositioned for sex. He's not sure which scenario is more disturbing.

 

“We're not in high school anymore, you know that, right?” Lance chuckles weakly. “Besides, if your program has enough students, it's not like anyone will single you out.”

 

“Believe me, Lance, they do. They always have. I have very few acquaintances at this point. It is quite miserable.”

 

Stupid subconscious, making him want to give this creep a hand. Lance remembers when he was younger. Scrawny, gangly limbs and big aspirations. Until high school, a majority of the kids in Lance's classes didn't like him. They hated him for his grades or for the way teachers grinned when he answered questions correctly. Kids could be cruel, that’s for sure.

 

If not for Hunk, Lance would have been alone for the first thirteen or so years of his life.

 

“I can't believe I'm actually considering this,” Lance grumbles under his breath.

 

“Hm?”

 

“Nothing, just…” Lance pauses.

 

He can hear Hunk now. _This is a horrible idea! A terrible, awful idea! C’mon, dude._ And imaginary Hunk has a point. Deep down, Lance knows this whole “friendship plan” spells trouble.

 

“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do. I’ll hang out with you on campus—”

 

“Well—”

 

“But that’s it, okay? I’ll try to make people like you, or whatever, but that’s all,” Lance outlines for Lotor. “That’s the only deal I’m offering so either take it or leave it.”

 

Lotor smirks fondly. “I suppose that will do for now.”

 

“Great… Now, if we're gonna be friends, I need to know your opinion on the Star Wars franchise. Oh, and how you eat Oreo’s.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

A couple weeks pass before Lotor becomes persistent about dragging Lance into his life.

 

“I can’t take this, dude. I already told you our friendship is a strictly an on-campus thing,” Lance laughs nervously. The silver key feels like a lead weight in the palm of his hand. “I—”

 

“Nonsense,” Lotor scoffs. He struts over to the couch, shoes clicking across the floor. The place is _huge_. Every inch screams luxury and decadence. Leather furniture, glassy tables and twinkling lights, a massive flat-screen television and two adjacent walls lined with windows. Standing in the doorway is enough to make Lance anxious, like he doesn’t belong. “If you are to be my… friend” —Lotor stumbles over the word like a baby learning to talk— “you deserve to use this space as you wish.”

 

 _I feel like I have a frickin’ sugar daddy._ Cautiously, Lance tiptoes over to join Lotor on the couch. He just about melts into the cushions. A sigh slips past his lips, unbidden.

 

“Well, don’t mind if I do,” Lance trills, letting his eyes flutter shut. “Thanks.”

 

“Of course. It is no problem at all. Admittedly, I brought you here to ask for a favor. My group is going out to a club tonight. Will you join us? We have some important business to attend to.”

 

“‘Business,’ huh?” Lance jests. Then, the reality of Lotor’s inquiry sinks in. ”Uh, no, sorry. Only when we’re on campus, alright?”

 

“Lance…”

 

Lance wastes no time in jumping to his feet. At his back, Lotor’s stare burns holes through his skull. Frustration rolls off of him in waves. _Abort mission, abort mission!_ Lance carefully sets the spare key on the little glass table and then scrambles for the door.

 

“Thanks again for the offer,” Lance sputters. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

And, okay, maybe he’s being a tad harsh. But he trusts his instincts, as well as Hunk’s. Lotor is bad news.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“And you know what this asshole does?” Lance takes a purposeful pause, skimming over the crowd of people he’s attracted. “He kisses both of them!”

 

Everyone laughs, perfectly on cue, and Lance puts on his best fake smile. He and Lotor sit on the steps outside the downtown library amongst a small group of students. The temperature has already dropped extensively now that autumn is in full swing, and Lance takes a second to adjust the sleeves of his sweater. Lotor sits close enough to share body heat, which is great but also not because it’s _Lotor_.

 

“Of course you did,” one of the boys snorts. He eyes Lotor appreciatively.

 

“He’s something else,” Lance forces himself to say. These stories are packed with lies. Not completely, but only bits and pieces are true. Lance makes sure to throw in details from his own crazy life whenever the original is too boring.

 

“Seems that way.”

 

Lance swivels to face the source of the voice. Sometime during his storytelling session, a girl sat next to him. A girl, mind you, who is one of the most beautiful people Lance has ever seen. Fine features and gleaming eyes, a smile you can’t help but want to see more of. Her lips are painted cherry red and two blonde ponytails swish with every movement of her head.

 

Nyma, Lance later learns.

 

And, to his delight, later _dates_.

 

Casual as ever, she leans against Lance, silky strands of hair intermittently tickling his cheeks. She goes quiet as Lance starts another ‘Tale of the Great (But Actually Not so Great) Lotor.’ It’s nice, having someone so close to him. The faint aroma of lilac reaches him, and Lance happily inhales.

 

Suddenly, being around Lotor feels a bit more bearable.

 

 

* * *

 

 

But Lotor is dangerous.

 

When Lance hears what club Lotor and his followers will be at, his curiosity gets the better of him. Every time Lotor begged him to go, Lance turned him down without fail. The dude apparently didn’t comprehend the whole ‘on-campus only’ part of their bargain. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what Lotor’s crew even _did_ on nights like this that qualified as ‘business.’

 

Were the rumors… true?

 

“This place is, uh.”

 

“Yeah,” Lance agree. “Yeah, this place oozes sketchiness.”

 

There hasn’t been a single familiar face since they walked through the door. They all appear older, likely in their mid to late twenties. Lance normally enjoys clubbing. He and Hunk, sometimes Pidge, spend the night dancing like tipsy idiots, sticking to the fringes of the dance floor. Twirling and singing at the tops of their lungs, not giving a damn about what people think— that’s the clubbing experience Lance wants.

 

This club has a completely different ambience. And Lance isn’t feeling it one bit.

 

He spots Lotor in the back, looking oddly out of place in his burgundy button-down and dark jeans. Sprawled out, nose upturned like a prince surveying the peasants from his throne. He’s nestled snugly between Sendak and— wait. Wait, no. Eyelids tinged with gold, violet irises framed by dark lashes. The unmistakable jut of her chin and curl of her smile, a flash of white between glistening pink lips.

 

_Nyma._

 

Lotor slips a wad of bills into the meaty hand of a stranger. The man slips a tiny bag into Lotor’s palm and winks before scuttling away. Lance feels like he’s watching everything through a haze, through a cloud of smoke. The bag is passed around the group and, _fuck_ , Lance can’t look away. Nyma takes a little. Nyma, the Nyma who didn’t fucking do stuff like this.

 

The Nyma who Lotor knows for a fact _Lance is dating_.

 

“Hey, man, did you— Oh.” Hunk immediately stops talking. Lance has yet to regain his senses but has enough presence of mind to avert his gaze. He can already feel the pressure of a growing headache.

 

“We should go,” Lance whispers, but it’s lost to the sheer volume of their surroundings. Hunk compensates and motions for Lance to repeat himself. “We. Should. Go.”

 

“You got it, buddy.” Hunk snags his wrist and tugs them through the mass of scantily-clad partiers.

 

Lance chances one more look toward the booth. Nyma’s head is thrown back, cackling, and Sendak brushes his fingers through Lotor’s hair, weaving strands into what appears to be a thin braid. For a moment, Lance worries Lotor catches him staring. Eyes fixed on something in Lance’s general direction, he waits and waits until Nyma must suggest joining the crowd. And, as he stands, Lance swears Lotor meets his eyes and fucking simpers.

 

 _Shit_. Lance turns his focus back to getting the hell out of this place.

 

Lotor is darkness and shade, wrapped and tied with a hideous deceit-laden bow. A trainwreck disguised as a fashion model. He’s the thirst for revenge and control, insatiable, to a horrifying degree. Justice is merely a concept, and one he need not adhere to. To Lotor, Lance is merely a tool or an object, a means to an end, operating under the guise of friendship.

 

Lance makes a promise to himself as he slides into the passenger seat of Hunk’s car. He’ll stick with Lotor until he can save Nyma.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 **Nyma <3:** he doesn’t even throw the punches!!

plus the dude’s got money. big cash M O N E Y

 **Lance:** babe he hurts people

 **Nyma <3:** he can get you whatever you want tho

and the stuff he brought to the club last night? crazyyyyy

you should try some

 **Lance:** listen i’m no saint

and i’m not gonna tell you how to live your life but

know that i care about you

and i’m worried bc that shit could really screw you up

 **Nyma <3:** calm down love

everything will be fine

 

* * *

 

 

Lance and his father are clearly cut from the same cloth.

 

Their facial structure is nearly identical. Same pert nose and eye shape, wide and radiant smiles. His father's brows are a bit thicker. He doesn't bother to sculpt them every day like Lance. This late at night, his thick brown hair is more disheveled than Lance's, worn longer with a slight curl at the ends.

 

And, tonight, he looks exhausted.

 

“I swear, Dad, I'm fine,” Lance implores. His desk chair squeaks as he scoots his ass around, trying to get comfortable.

 

“You know how I feel about...”

 

“Lotor,” Lance finishes for him.

 

“Yes, Lotor.” On screen, his father's face scrunches up. “He's a negative influence. I know Hunk doesn't like him. His mother told me just the other day about that club.”

 

Lance groans. Of course Hunk told his mom. The two were incredibly close, sharing practically everything with each other. Which would almost definitely include his trip to Katlenecker’s, one of the skeeviest clubs Lance has ever had the displeasure of visiting. Chances are, Hunk ranted about the club for a solid _hour_ and scared his poor mother half to death. Who then scolded Lance's father for letting his son hang out with ‘wealthy hooligans.’

 

“Dad—”

 

“And don't start with that ‘Hunk also takes me clubbing’ nonsense. I know Hunk. I've known that boy since you two were in diapers.” His father chuckles, a resoundingly sad sound. “I trust him. Pidge, too.”

 

“Lotor isn't _that_ bad.”

 

“Not what I've heard. You forget I know the boy's father,” he says. “His personal secretary is always telling stories. She says they have a shaky relationship, but the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.”

 

“I'm just helping him out, Dad! I won't do anything illegal.”

 

“Lance… please.” His father leans closer to the webcam, an edge of desperation to his voice. “Do this for me? And your mother? His family has more money than they know what to do with. He doesn't need to keep using you to earn people's respect.”

 

Lance wants to look away. He can't bear to lie to the man who's supported him for years. When kids at school picked on him, when he wanted to go to college, when he decided to publicly come out as bisexual. He told Hunk first, but it was only a matter of hours before he also told his parents. Lance’s mother held him close as tears streamed down his face, while his father urged him to tell the rest of the McClain’s at the next family reunion.

 

“You're still you. That hasn't changed,” he whispered, carding shaky fingers through Lance's hair.

 

And now… Lance has to _lie_ to him.

 

“Alright,” Lance sighs. His heart beats thunderously in his chest. “Alright, we're done. Donesies. No more Lotor.”

 

A genuine smile plays at his father's lips. “Good. You know I only do this because I care about you, right?”

 

“I know…”

 

“I— Lance, if you really like spending time with this boy…”

 

“No,” Lance blurts. His dad's eyes widen comically and then soften, quietly studying Lance. “No, it's... It's fine. You're right. Lotor will live.”

 

“You can't help yourself, huh? Always wanting to do what’s best for people. Just like your mother.” His father's smile blooms into something beautiful and bright. “You're really growing up.”

 

Each word pierces through Lance's chest. He wishes he could tell him the truth. _Lotor could get you fired_ , Lance swallows down. _He's even more fucked up than I am._

“Thanks, Dad,” he murmurs affectionately.

 

“I love you. Make sure to get some sleep tonight.”

 

“I will. And I love you, too.” Lance's fingers hover over the ‘end call’ button. “Tell everyone else I love them. Even Samuel.”

 

Lance exchanges a few more teasing remarks about other family members before hanging up. The laptop slides shut with a soft _click_. Behind him, Hunk starts to whistle, feigning nonchalance.

 

“You were listening the whole time, weren't you?” Lance accuses, turning in his chair. He swings his leg over so he straddles the seat facing Hunk. It rocks forward as the center of gravity relocates itself.

 

“Pssht, me? Eavesdrop?” Hunk's eyes dart from side to side as he slips his headphones off. The orange band hangs loosely around his neck. “I would never.”

 

Hunk is too nosy for his own good sometimes. It's the one bad habit of his that bothers Lance the most.

 

“ _Dude_.”

 

“I'm sorry, okay? I couldn’t help it.”

 

“Why’d you have to go and tell your mom? My dad has been hedging me about Lotor for weeks now. He hasn’t even met the guy, and he already hates him.” Lance presses his chin into the tops of his hands. “Please tell me he doesn’t know about the drugs and the... car theft?”

 

A week or so after they spotted Lotor and Nyma at the club, Lance's car was almost stolen. It isn't even a _nice_ car, really. A sedan that's been in the family for several years, Blue has taken plenty of beatings before. Dented passenger side door, questionable stereo system and a faulty tail light. Lance can't understand why anyone— other than himself, of course— would want her.

 

And to find out it was Nyma who tried… Lance had been heartbroken. They were technically still dating but, at times like that, it didn't feel like it.

 

“I haven’t mentioned Nyma to my mom,” Hunk mumbles. “She’d flip out. And I know your dad would flip out, too, if he found out Lotor and Nyma were… What even are they? She’s like his henchwoman or something, always trying to impress him. I don’t get it.”

 

“Our parents don’t need to know about that… And my car is still intact, right? No biggie.”

 

“Buddy… Lance… I’m worried about you. Lotor really is—”

 

“I’m just helping him out! You know how people used to treat me,” Lance interjects, but it comes out a bit harsher than he intended. Hunk flinches at the severity of his tone. “And I have to get Nyma out of there. If things get bad, I’ll leave him. Okay? You have my word.”

 

Hunk doesn’t respond right away. There’s a flicker of something— sympathy, maybe— in his eyes that rocks Lance to his core. This is his friend, his _best_ friend. Hunk has always been looking out for him, and, quite honestly, Lance doesn’t know how he’ll ever repay him for everything he’s done. But Lance has to see this through. It’s too soon to drop Lotor, not when he’s still getting Nyma mixed up in illegal shit.

 

“I don’t think he’ll ever stop,” Hunk eventually breathes. His fingers bunch up the material of his sweatpants, grey cotton wrinkling beneath his strong grip. “He just keeps getting worse, dude. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

 

“I can handle this,” Lance asserts. “I can totally handle this.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 **Nyma <3:** one night won’t kill you babe

 **Lance:** with lotor?

it just might

 **Nyma <3:** you’re too hard on him!!

he’s cool

 

 

Lance aimlessly taps his phone screen before writing out a response.

 

 

 **Lance** : he talked you into stealing my car...

 **Nyma <3:** okay but that was different

and i didn't go through with it!

i’m still sorry about that btw 

 **Lance** : it's fine

 

 

(Not really.)

 

 

 **Lance** : i reaaaally think you need to stop hanging out with him

like the clubbing and everything

 **Nyma <3**: you worry too much love 

i’ll be careful

not like i couldn’t kick his ass if i wanted to

 **Lance:** promise me you’ll ditch him if things get too crazy?

 

 

Several tense minutes pass, Lance glaring at the three blinking dots at the bottom of their conversation. Taunting him.

 

 

 **Nyma <3**: pinky promise

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Come on,” Lotor purrs. He dangles the apartment key in front of Lance's face like a carrot in front of a horse. “Take it, please. Go out with us one night. You know how happy Nyma would be.”

 

“No,” Lance snaps. “That doesn't count as on-campus, my dude. I'm here to make people like you. Not party together on the weekends.”

 

Lotor's lips twist into a scowl. “Fine.” He withdraws a list from his pocket and flattens it out on his thigh. “In the meantime, these are the people we need to speak with.”

 

Lance blinks at the wrinkled scrap of paper. “These… specific people?” He skims through the names. “I don’t even know what they look like. How am I supposed to find them?”

 

“Well, I am afraid that’s your problem now,” Lotor bites. He’s clearly not too keen on the fact Lance denied his invitation— again. For the, like, millionth fucking time because the dude is lowkey a sack of garbage juice. “Bring them to our next lunch meeting.”

 

“And if I don’t?” Lance asks. But he already knows the answer.

 

Lotor scowls. “I reiterate, that’s your problem now.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Lance watches from the car window.

 

Crouched low to ensures he won’t be spotted, he struggles to follow the current turn of events. Lotor’s beefiest admirers stand at the ready by his side. A spindly guy, bony and fragile-looking, has been arguing with them for what feels like hours now. The backpack strapped to his torso is nearly the same size as his body. Lance waits with baited breath for the poor dude to tip over.

 

God, he hates this.

 

Cringing from the sidelines, fear holding him back from acting. He’s lost track of the times he’s spied on Lotor while he ‘took care of business.’ He’s sick of the twisted pleasure Lotor gets from stealing, from using his father’s prowess to scare people into submission. Sick of the way he’s warped a girl Lance genuinely liked. Fucking _sick_ of the facade he puts on when they’re on campus, when Hunk is around.

 

Lotor never truly needed him. Not that it comes as any shock to Lance. He knew what their relationship would be like from the very beginning. He’s tried on countless occasions to sway Lotor, to show him how completely and utterly _fucked_ this whole mess is. If not for his crooked personality, Lotor might be an alright guy— Lance genuinely believes that. But, with each passing day, he loses hope.

 

Another of Lotor’s cohorts, Thace, has been trying to escape the group since the two were in high school together. It's been a long battle for him. Years of begrudgingly assisting in scams and other illegal bullshit. Like Lance, his father is employed by Galran Enterprises, and Lotor often threatens, albeit subtly, to have him let go.

 

 _You’re just like your scum of a father_ , Lance always withholds.

 

He needs to save Nyma and _fast._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 **Lance:** please don’t go with him

 **Nyma <3**: bossy 

this is the last time, i swear

he scared me the other night

one of the guys had a gun or smth

 

 

Lance clutches his phone tighter. His fingers feel heavy as he types.

 

 

 **Lance** : that’s why i wish you wouldn’t go

 **Nyma <3:** but everything worked out!!

 **Lance:** i know

and i love you but

i don’t think i can do this anymore

 

 

Lance wishes he could’ve done this in-person, but it’s too late. That’s the way things always seem to turn out when Lotor’s involved. And, unfortunately, their relationship has been strained for weeks now.  Once Nyma realized the truth behind Lance and Lotor’s arrangement, her attitude toward him changed. Plus, the almost car theft stuck a pretty big wedge between them.

 

If circumstances were different, he and Nyma might have worked out. As they were? Never going to happen.

 

 _Ugh_. What he wouldn’t give to punch Lotor in the face. Maybe he’d be less appealing with a broken nose and busted lip.

 

**Nyma <3**: i figured

and i love you too but i get it

we’re good

you deserve better anyway

 

 

Lance shakes his head, muttering under his breath. “No, no, no…”

 

 

 **Lance:** don’t say that

 **Nyma <3:** we’re not a good match. all there is to it

shame tho. you’re a great guy

 **Lance** : says you

 

When no answer comes, Lance’s fingers fly across the keyboard.

 

 **Lance:** be careful out there

you deserve a hell of a lot better than lotor

you and i both know that

 

 

Relief washes over him when he reads the new messages, blinking from the notification bar.

 

 

 **Nyma <3**: obviously 

i’ll ditch him soon

 

 

* * *

 

 

Two more months pass before everything comes to a head.

 

When Hunk tells Lance, his vision goes red, clouded with rage. Later he’ll hate the way he snaps at Hunk for ‘butting into his life.’ Now, though, nothing else matters. Nothing matters but the news he’s been given.

 

Lance storms into Lotor’s apartment and tosses the key carelessly aside. He’d finally accepted it and now— It's a fucking waste, the symbol of a friendship that was never real and certainly never will be.

 

Sendak and a couple other girls lounge in the living area when Lance comes bursting in. Lotor has both of his feet in Sendak’s lap, while the taller of the two girls kneads his shoulders with deft, tangerine-colored nails. Thankfully, Nyma isn't there. Thace is nowhere to be seen either, and Lance silently hopes they were able to get out while they still could.

 

“What the hell?” Lance bellows. The words erupt from his throat like lava from the mouth of an active volcano. “Are you _kidding me?_ ”

 

Lotor glances at Lance, mouth set in an indifferent line. “What’s wrong?”

 

“I need to talk to you.” Lance glances pointedly at each of Lotor’s guests, teeth gritted. “Privately.”

 

To his relief, the others leave without much complaint. If anything, Lotor seems the most put out. He reaches back to massage his neck and readjusts himself. Disregard turns to frustrated interest as he looks between his followers, heading for the kitchen, and Lance. He flicks a few loose strands of hair out of his face and crosses his legs.

 

“You seem distraught,” Lotor remarks, somewhat offhandedly. His demeanor makes Lance want to scream, to lash out. His blood boils beneath his skin. “What happened?”

 

“Wha— I can’t believe you.” Lance jabs an accusing finger in Lotor’s face. “Lying to me all this time, telling me my dad would be alright as long as I made everyone kiss your ass.”

 

“Lance, please,” Lotor chuckles, but it’s trembling. Scared. “Sit down.”

 

“No.” Lance shakes his head. “No, no fucking way. After everything I’ve done, all the people I’ve recruited to your weird little cult, and— you had him _fired?_ ”

 

Lotor has never looked more terrified. Eyes bulging out of his skull, mouth drawn into a flabbergasted ‘o.’ The sight is strangely satisfying, and Lance revels in the moment, in having the advantage over someone who’s been manipulating and _using_ him. He wants Lotor to be afraid.

 

“I can explain,” Lotor protests. But it’s a sorry attempt.

 

“No, you can’t. It seems pretty straightforward to me. You’re an asshole, your dad is an asshole,  and you relish the suffering of others. Corrupting Nyma and getting all pissy because I didn’t want to— to help you _harass_ people. So you had my dad fired? Who…. Why...”

 

The energy gradually leaves Lance’s body. He feels like a deflating balloon, filled with rage only to be burst by the sad realization and conclusiveness of what’s been done. Fired. His dad is out of a job now, and it’s all thanks to some spoiled rotten jackass who only cared about himself. It hurts. God, it _hurts_ , and Lance should sit down, should at least find somewhere to perch so he doesn’t collapse.

 

“Believe me, I didn’t want to,” Lotor maintains. His earlier callousness is long gone.

 

“Then why’d you do it, huh?” Lance crosses his arms over his chest. “Why? My dad’s always been a hard worker. This is the first time he’s ever been fired.”

 

He’s really starting to despise that word— fired.

 

“He… Lance, we both know he did not like me,” Lotor elaborates. As if it’s a reasonable explanation. “My own father caught wind of this matter and—”

 

That’s _it_?

 

That’s it.

 

Zarkon— even thinking the name made Lance queasy. The monstrous excuse for a father overheard his dad talking about Lotor and…

 

“We’re done,” Lance manages to say. He hardly trusts himself to speak, to even be in the same room as Lotor. Tears threaten to spill over, but Lance refuses to let Lotor see him cry. He doesn’t deserve the satisfaction. “Done,” he repeats.

 

“Lance…”

 

“Don’t,” he warns, low and threatening. “There’s no way you can buy your way out of this one. Your stupid key is… somewhere, I don’t know. I threw it when I walked in, but I’m sure you can get your fucking lackeys to look for it for you.”

 

Lance turns immediately for the door. He ignores every single one of Lotor’s protests. Savoring each plea, he stomps his way out of the apartment and right back out of Lotor’s life. The ride in the elevator is uncomfortably quiet, and Lance feels trapped with his own thoughts. There’s nowhere to run inside your own mind.

 

He should’ve ditched Lotor ages ago. When Lotor tried dragging him to clubs to make ‘deals,’ drove through town badgering people who talked shit about his father, fed his followers lies to keep them loyal and complacent. Hell, Lance never should’ve attempted to help him in the first place.

 

Lance slumps into his car— the very same one Nyma nearly stole from him— and just sits there. Doesn’t speak or move, doesn’t stick the keys in the ignition or turn on the radio. His hands rest uselessly in his lap. His body feels like it belongs to someone else. Limbs loose and unmoving, numb. Slowly, he leans back and shuts his eyes.

 

Somehow, he pulls out his phone and manages to scroll through his contacts. _Hunk._

 

Who doesn’t deserve this. Not after his persistent pleas for Lance to leave Lotor. Lance struggles to stifle his tears, for just a little longer to avoid worrying Hunk any more than he already has, but the first sob wrenches free the second the call goes through.

 

“Hunk—”

 

“I gotcha, buddy,” Hunk interrupts. There isn’t even a hint of malice in his voice. He should be furious after the way Lance exploded on him but no. “I gotcha.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Keith_

This is fucking excruciating.

 

Keith has never been an especially patient person. And with Lance, of all people, holed up in another room _upset_ , he feels like he’s losing his mind.

 

Once everyone cleared the room, Lance took off. He didn’t say another word— he just left. Stomped down the hall to his bedroom, slammed the door shut behind him, and hadn’t spoken to anyone since. Keith quickly sobered up and found himself pacing in front of the television, without any idea how to make his damn legs stop.

 

He had expected either Hunk or Pidge to race after Lance. He knew how much they cared about him— especially Hunk. They were like two brothers separated at birth. ‘My brotha from anotha motha,’ Lance always said.

 

As much as Keith wants to go, confront the issue himself, something tells him not to. Maybe it’s the set of Hunk’s shoulders as he collapses against the back of the couch. Maybe it’s the grimace on Pidge’s face, the way she keeps sighing and glancing between the floor and the hallway.

 

“What happened?” There’s a faint croak to Keith’s voice when he eventually breaks the silence. “You know, between Lance and… and Lotor?”

 

Pidge visibly stiffens, fingers curling into fists in her lap. But it’s Hunk who answers. “It’s not my place to say, dude.”

 

A thousand different scenarios cycle through Keith’s head. Each more unpleasant than the last, more infuriating. What if Lotor hurt Lance? What if…

 

“He doesn’t like to talk about it, does he?” Keith kicks a crushed red cup aside. “I had no idea they knew each other, let alone had some sort of history together.”

 

“Yeah, and he likes to keep it that way,” Hunk explains. “It’s not an easy thing to talk about, Keith. Trust me.”

 

“Then why can’t you tell me? It’ll be easier for Lance that way,” Keith pleads. He stops directly in front of Hunk, placing his hands on his hips. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if it was you.”

 

Hunk slaps his hands to his cheeks and tugs down. A loud groan breaks the relative silence of the apartment, and Keith takes a startled step back. Pidge huffs out a laugh, climbing to her feet, and pats Keith on the back.

 

“I think he should just go talk to him, Hunk,” Pidge offers. Her touch grounds Keith, reminding him of all the times they’ve had to confide in each other in the past. Neither of them are especially great at discussing feelings, but maybe that’s why they manage. “It would be good for Lance to talk about it, and Keith will totally listen.” Another jostling pat on his back. “Won’t you?”

 

“Ye— yeah.” Keith nods as if to reassure himself. “Yeah, of course.”

 

From across the room, Hunk releases a softer groan, resigned. “You’re going to go anyway, right? Even if I tell you it’s a bad idea?”

 

Keith licks his lips, anxiety brewing deep within the pit of his gut. The longer he waits to talk to Lance, the more he panics. And the stronger the urge to chase down Lotor and sock the bastard in the jaw. “What do you think?”

 

“Right,” Hunk drawls. “That’s about what I figured.”

 

A beat passes before Hunk jerks his head in the direction of the hallway. Keith is tempted to ask more questions but reads the unspoken message loud and clear. He bustles down the hallway and freezes in front of Lance’s room. Half-expecting to hear crying, Keith finds the silence on the other side to be unnerving.

 

Before he can lose his nerve, Keith knocks. Three solid hits that reverberate through the wood of the door.

 

“Lance?” Keith clears his throat. “Are you okay?”

 

An answer comes, but Keith isn’t sure whether or not he imagines it.

 

“What… What did you say?” Keith asks.

 

“The door is unlocked.” A bit louder, quivering, but undeniably Lance.

 

Carefully, Keith twists the knob and pushes the door open. He’s seen this bedroom many times before. It feels different, though, in this context. Especially when Keith’s gaze falls on the figure sitting cross-legged on the bed.

 

Socked heels pressed into the pits of his knees, propped up by arms outstretched behind him. Lance peers intently at the ceiling. It isn’t the usual wonderment Keith has grown accustomed to either. The glow-in-the-dark stars overhead have always been a favorite of his. Keith is used to him tracing the tiny green stars with his finger as they both lie together, jokingly naming constellations. One for Keith, one for Lance, even Pidge and Hunk.

 

This Lance looks defeated, and Keith can’t stand it.

 

“Hey,” Keith whispers.

 

To his surprise, Lance meets his eyes. A watery smile on his face, he pats the empty space on the bed next to him. Keith doesn’t hesitate for a second. He settles into the space as if it were made for him and gladly lets Lance pull him closer.

 

Gently, Lance curls his arms around Keith’s waist. He tugs at Keith and spreads his legs so Keith fits comfortably between his thighs. Heat spreads from the point of contact, and Keith takes some comfort in the fact Lance hasn’t lost his natural warmth. Fingernails scratch lightly over the expanse between his shoulder blades. Lance calmly adapts to the new position and buries his face in the crook of Keith’s neck.

 

“I’m sorry,” Lance breathes against the column of his throat. “I’m sorry, I— Can we just stay like this? I’ll explain, but…”

 

“Of course,” Keith assures. His own arms settle around Lance’s neck. “Take your time.”

 

And Lance does.

 

Several minutes of silence, of neither of them saying a word, tick by before Lance eventually starts talking. He tells Keith everything. About his first encounter with Lotor, about when he found out his father worked for Lotor’s. About the way Nyma changed, convinced that Lotor would get her exactly what she wanted. About the times Lance spied on Lotor as he drove around town, recruiting new followers, and about how he hardly treated Lance like a human being. And, of course, about Lotor having his dad fired for what he said— because Lance didn’t want to be close to Lotor.

 

Keith listens to every last detail. He nods throughout Lance’s story, to prove he’s still paying attention. When Lance finishes, pressing their bodies even closer together, Keith lets him. It’s the least he can do.

 

“That’s why you lied, right?” Keith prompts. “About why Nyma wanted to steal your car?”

 

Lance nods.

 

“And she still comes to your parties?”

 

“Yeah, we’re cool. She mostly hangs out with Rolo now,” Lance murmurs. “He’s a cool dude.”

 

“So she wasn’t the one who invited—”

 

“No,” Lance stresses. “Never. I bet it was… was Sendak.”

 

Keith bites his tongue. What the fuck? It hadn’t even registered with Keith at first, but now he definitely recalls meeting a guy named ‘Sendak’ during spin the bottle.

 

“God, Lance, I’m so fucking sorry.” Keith curls his fingers in the hair at the nape of Lance’s neck. “I had no idea.”

 

“I…” Lance is uncharacteristically quiet. “I didn’t think he’d come back for me.”

 

“I’m not letting him anywhere near you. Got it?”

 

“Mm,” Lance hums. “You really are too good to me, you know?”

 

Warmth shrouds Keith like a blanket. “Lance…”

 

“Even if you do have a mullet.”

 

Keith rolls his eyes. _There’s the Lance I know._

 

“Hey, just because I have a mullet doesn’t mean I’m a bad person.”

 

“Sounds like the sort of thing someone with a mullet would say,” Lance teases. It's eerily reminiscent of their usual bickering.

 

Seeing Lance like this, genuinely rattled, feels wrong somehow. The blinding radiance of a supernova diminished to the flicker of a dying flame. And all because of one person. One. An insignificant person, in the grand scheme of things.

 

But Lance is human, isn’t he? And human beings have emotions. Lance has plenty of emotions, enough for the two of them combined. Keith has seen him angry before. Like when he loses a round of Smash Brothers or miscalculates the value of the lift slope coefficient for a homework problem. When he forgets the punchline of a joke.

 

It’s nothing like this, though. Not even close. Keith wants to mend every tear in Lance’s heart, to stitch him back together again with his own two hands.

 

“Lance?”

 

Lance mumbles something indecipherable, hopefully a ‘yes,’ and clenches his fingers into the thin fabric of Keith’s shirt.

 

“I… I really like you,” Keith confesses. The words taste foreign in his mouth. He turns them over on his tongue, testing the heft of each syllable. “Like _really_ really like you.”

 

Keith worries his stupid heart may beat its way out of his chest. The air is charged with tension. Something unspeakable that Keith can’t quite slap a label on. Is it… love? What a scary fucking concept— loving someone. And not the way he loves Shiro, not in the familial sort of way Keith knows.

 

A new love. Similar to the kind of love he feels toward Pidge, his best friend in the world. But bigger. Harder to hold inside. Keith feels like he’s _bursting_ with it. Like if he doesn’t find a way to express what he’s feeling, the emotions will break free whether he likes it or not.

 

What the hell is this? The relief he feels when Lance is anywhere near him, especially after they’ve been apart for a couple days. Lance’s passion for the color blue, his ridiculous skin regime and impressive knowledge of movie quotes and song lyrics. The sultry timbre of his voice when he sings, even when he’s just trying to be funny. The unsightly grey sneakers that Keith swears Lance has worn since the fifth grade. His space paraphernalia and surfboard covered with a myriad of flashy stickers.

 

Keith is so weak for him. The good and the bad. _Everything_. Weak for the person Lance really is, flaws and all.

 

‘Pseudo-boyfriends.’ ‘Kind of dating.’ Who is he kidding?

 

Then, he feels it. Gentle, like the brush of a feather along his bare skin. But warmer, wetter. That’s when he realizes— those are Lance’s lips.

 

“Lance?” Keith hardly recognises his own voice.

 

And, just like that, the touch is gone. But the tickle of Lance's breath, of shuddering exhales, remains. “Is this… okay?”

 

 _Yes_! Keith's subconscious screams. _Come the fuck on already!_ He's been craving this for weeks, constantly hoping Lance would make the first move. Because Lance is a ‘first move’ kind of guy, through and through. He’s the one who messaged Keith on Tinder, who arranged their first date even after several failed attempts. Fuck, Lance has more confidence than people give him credit for. And at this moment, Keith needs him to take a leap of faith— for both of their sakes.

 

He must say ‘yes’ — he can hardly remember his own _name_ right now— because the gentle pressure returns, just above his pulsepoint. Light, careful, focused on that one particular spot. Keith suppresses a shiver as Lance shifts his attention closer and closer to his jaw, leaving a heated trail of kisses in his wake. Here, there, a tender press of lips to his chin.

 

Keith has never been kissed like this. Slow, languid, like they have all the time in the world. In his experience, kisses are rushed and messy exchanges with fingers clawing at clothes. Keith expected Lance to handle kissing like he handled everything else. Driven and brimming with enthusiasm.

 

Lance bravely edges up and over the curve of Keith’s jaw. Fuck, does that feel nice. A pleasant burn right beneath the surface of his skin. Nimble fingers slip beneath the material of his jacket. Lance eases it to the side, and Keith gladly shifts to speed up the process. Lance drops a kiss to his collarbone, his shoulder, and Keith sighs, buzzing with some strange and all-encompassing feeling.

 

Thankfully, Keith bends his arm and withdraws it from the sleeve without elbowing Lance in the face. They repeat the process for his other arm. Lance leaves no stone unturned, no place un _touched_ , and kisses every inch of skin as it’s revealed. As he drags his lips over the junction between Keith’s neck and shoulder, Lance mumbles, “How… do you make a cropped jacket…” He sucks a patch of skin into his mouth, and Keith gasps like he’s been punched. “Look so… _good_?”

 

“I, uh. Well,” Keith rasps intelligently.

 

Lance smiles. “No sarcastic comment, huh? No sass?” He croons playfully. “I have to mark this down on the calendar. ‘The day I rendered the Great Mullet speechless.’”

 

And, dammit, he’s right. Keith has nothing to say to that.

 

The jacket drops to the mattress behind Keith and the room feels sweltering. More bare skin exposed to Lance, more skin for him to touch and lavish with the soft swell of his lips. Keith wants that. God, he can’t imagine what he would do if Lance stopped now.

 

Lance directs his attention back to Keith’s throat. Up, up, just shy of his mouth as he places a kiss on each of Keith’s cheeks, the tip of his nose, his temples. Keith lets his eyes glide shut. His other senses feel heightened. Smell, taste— _touch_. The sight of eyelashes fluttering against sun-kissed skin, tiny freckles dotting the bridge of his nose and apples of his cheeks. It’s getting harder to breathe, to _think_. Keith is hyper-aware of every inch of his own body and, shit, is he shaking? Or is that Lance? Both of them? His entire being thrums with nervous energy.

 

After thoroughly mapping out Keith’s face with featherlight kisses, Lance reaches the corners of his mouth. Alternating between the two until, gradually, he slows to a stop at the right side. The temptation to guide Lance’s head, to angle it so their lips _finally_ come together, is killing Keith. And then Lance pulls back.

 

Keith whines, immediately missing the contact.

 

Lance leans his forehead against Keith’s and hovers there. Lips almost touching, breathing in each other’s air. Keith is too afraid to open his eyes and see the expression Lance is making. If he does, the whole thing will feel more real. Beyond this chimerical state, far more tangible.

 

“You know,” Lance whispers. “I’ve been wondering. How did I get so lucky?”

 

Keith stills, breath hitching in his throat.

 

“Someone who can overlook the shit I’ve done in the past. Someone who has the courage to say they… they _like_ a guy they matched with on” —Lance laughs— “fucking Tinder, for Christ’s sake.”

 

Keith wishes he could find the proper response, but words continue to evade him. Of course, he’s always been more of a tactile person. A person who expresses emotions through actions rather than words.

 

“Keith, I… I like you so much,” Lance admits. “Everything I said earlier, before we joined that game of spin the bottle— I meant it. I know I said I used to glare at you and stuff because I was jealous. And that’s definitely part of it but… I also hated how much I looked up to you.”

 

“...What?”

 

“Crazy, right? Starting a ‘rivalry’ with some dude because you hate how much you _don’t_ hate him. I hardly knew you, but, what I did know… God, I sound like a nutjob. I’m sorry.”

 

The gears in Keith’s brain turn slowly. _Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck._

 

“Keith?” His name sounds _amazing_ when Lance pants it like that. Husky, urgent. “Please say something, du—”

 

Keith does what he does best— he acts. He moves his hands to cradle Lance’s face in his palms and dives headfirst into their first real kiss. Reckless, that’s what Shiro called him. And now, as he presses his lips firmly to Lance’s, he supposes ‘reckless’ is awfully fitting.

 

Why…

 

Why in the ever-loving _fuck_ did Keith wait so long?

 

They could’ve been doing _this_ the whole time?

 

Lance makes the most delicious noise, a breathy moan originating from the core of his being. Keith did that. _He_ pulled that noise from Lance. A euphonious sound, music to his ears. The thought stokes a fire deep inside Keith, and he feels a sudden swell of possessiveness. He wants to protect Lance, to keep him happy, to earn more of those delightfully pleased sounds.

 

Keith hurriedly pulls away. Apprehension floods his veins, and Keith wonders, for a moment, if he’s ruined things. He doesn’t have much experience in the kissing department, but Lance… Lance has had some practice. Right?

 

Lance is openly gaping at him. Dilated pupils and red cheeks, cute as can fucking be. The endearing display robs Keith of any semblance of logic he has left.

 

(Illogical— isn't that what love really is?)

 

Keith licks his lips. “Sorry?” It comes out like a question, which wasn't exactly Keith's intention.

 

And Lance— he laughs. Giggles, really, and before Keith can even begin to ask what's going on, Lance nudges him back. “Only you would apologize for that.”

 

Keith’s body turns pliant as he allows Lance to rearrange their positions. Keith consents to every  silent, ‘Is this alright?’ Lance asks through the tremor in his fingers. He sinks further into the mattress. Instantly, he's hit with the scent of citrus and cotton. Surrounded by Lance.

 

Azure irises and golden, blemish-free skin. His smell, permeating from the pillow under Keith's head and soft folds of the blanket grasped in his hands. Lance looms over him and, fucking _hell_ , the scent gets stronger. From the fabric of his ‘Too Gay for this World’ tanktop, which Keith smooths his hands over, aching to map out the taut skin of his abdomen. His neck is flushed, his cheeks and even the expanse of his chest, peeking temptingly from under the collar of his shirt.

 

Lance slots their legs together and surges forward into another kiss. His arms bracket Keith's head, fingers twining in the dark hair splayed across his pillow. Experimentally gliding his lips over Keith's, a leisurely and wet drag that has Keith feeling like a livewire, electrified.

 

“This… is so… nice,” Keith manages between each quick peck Lance places on his mouth. Once, twice— Keith loses track somewhere along the way.

 

Lance snorts unexpectedly, and Keith shouldn't find it nearly as adorable as he does. “Now that's the feedback I'm looking for.”

 

Is this really Lance? Capable of reducing Keith to a blissed out puddle with a just few chaste kisses? Capable of being smooth _?_ And not the usual sort, which only Keith seems to find cute. But _actually_ smooth?

 

The next time Lance melds their mouths together, it's different. Deepening the kiss, Lance sucks Keith’s bottom lip into his mouth and— oh my _shit_.

 

Keith keens. He releases the blanket and wraps his arms around Lance. A string of whimpers fall from his lips, and Lance eagerly swallows each, fingernails lightly scraping across Keith's scalp. “Oh?” Lance rasps. “You like that?”

 

 _Are you kidding? Of fucking course I like it._ “Yes,” Keith pants instead, fingers grappling for purchase somewhere.

 

“Knew you'd be a freak,” Lance whispers and—

 

And, just like that, the spell is broken. Well, not completely. Keith is startled by his own laughter, and Lance smiles, far too pleased with himself. “Something funny?”

 

“You,” Keith points out like it’s obvious. Which it totally is.

 

Lance drags their mouths apart and Keith hates the whiny, “no,” he instinctively lets out. It goes unnoticed, and Lance brings his lips to the shell of Keith’s ear. “Mullet in the streets but a freak in the sheets.”

 

Keith _loses it_.

 

“ _Lance_ ,” he gasps, affronted, and moves to shove Lance off of him. Half-hearted little pushes that aren’t intended to actually push him away. And Lance, the self-satisfied jerk, has the nerve to grin. “You ruined it!”

 

“Clearly, your definition of ‘ruined’ is different than mine,” Lance teases, but shifts onto his side, coiling around Keith’s middle. He nuzzles into Keith’s chest like a cat. A lazy cat that’s way too proud of itself.

 

“God, you’re embarrassing.” Keith covers his face with the arm not trapped underneath Lance.

 

“But it’s the truth,” Lance singsongs.

 

“ _Embarrassing._ ”

 

“Says the dude who was moaning like a dog in heat…”

 

“You’re such an asshole.”

 

“But… I’m your asshole?” Lance glances up at Keith, batting his lashes. “Right?”

 

“There are so many things wrong with that statement. I don’t even know where to start.” Keith has yet to uncover his face. His cheeks are burning, and every time he considers moving, he realizes how much his fingers itch to brush over his tingling lips. Which, when you’re trying to prove you’re less embarrassing than Lance, isn’t the best option.

 

“You wound me,” Lance mutters. Then, he stiffens against Keith. “Wait. Your asshole. Oh my God. I didn’t— Keith, I didn’t mean it like that!”

 

Another laugh rumbles through Keith’s chest. This is what it’s supposed to feel like, right? After a ‘steamy makeout sesh,’ as Lance will likely dub it later when he’s gushing to Pidge and Hunk. Cuddled together, basking in the afterglow. It’s domestic. _Scarily_ domestic. Intimate. Unlike anything Keith has experienced when kissing people in the past. No one bothered to hold him like this afterwards.

 

But Lance… he clings to Keith. Like a lifeline.

 

Keith knows if he looks, there will be tear stains streaking Lance’s cheeks. He knows the salty taste of their kisses had everything to do with those tears. And he knows he’ll do whatever it takes to keep Lance from crying like this again.

 

Lance brushes his socked toes along Keith’s calf, and that one gesture… something inside Keith breaks. It won’t be long before that stupid, ridiculous love he’s been holding in comes bursting out of his body like a fucking explosion.

 

_Damn._

 

Regardless, Keith could really get used to this.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU CAN HATE ME FOR THE FIRST PART, IT'S FINE, I HATE ME TOO. but also... they Smooch. thank you for reading! all kudos and comments are appreciated- they're the best motivation. come chat with me about klance on [tumblr](http://tobiologist.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/tobiologist)

**Author's Note:**

> come cry with me over on tumblr or twitter @tobiologist. i really love talking to readers!! and please let me know if you make anything for this story :)


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